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0 38716  36009  "'s 


MAY  1 994 


Illlllllllll 

Quideto  ^ 
EilialiaiKslilals 


DOLPHINS' BELL 

AnneMcCaffr^ 


TheSeartBoobi 

bjTallkltt 


TheSemlBaAsof 
Paradyshll 
by  Tnilk  Ur 


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THE  PRYDAIN 
CHRONICLES 

Lloyd  Alexander 


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Stories  from  Asimov's 
hove  won  twenty-two 
Hugos  and  twenty- 
one  Nebula  Awards, 
and  our  editors 
have  recleved  nine 
Hugo  Awards  for  Best 
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Award  for  Best 
Magazine. 


Asim(n« 

Science  Fiction 


Vol.  18  No.  6 (Whole  Number  216) 

May  1994 

Next  Issue  on  Sale 

April  26, 1994 


Novelettes 

20  Summer  and  Ice  Alexander  Jablokov 

62  The  Fragrance  of  Orchids  Salty  McBride 

82  Cocoon  Greg  Egan 

112  The  West  Is  Red  Greg  Costikyan 

1 36  The  God  Who  Slept  with  Women  _ Brian  W.  Aldiss 

Short  Story 

6 Fortyday  Damon  Knight 

Departments 

4 Editorial:  Changes  Gardner  Dozois 

166  On  Books;  Making  Introductions  _ Sheila  Williams 

168  On  Books  MosheFeder 

176  The  SF  Conventional  Calendar  _ Erwin  S.  Strauss 

Poems  by  Tom  DIsch.  Joe  Holdeman,  and  William  John  Watkins 
Cover  art  for  "The  God  Who  Slept  with  Women"  by  Mark  Harrison 


Isaac  Asimov:  Editorial  Director  (1977-1992) 

Gardner  Dozois:  Editor  Sheila  Williams:  Executive  Editor 

Christoph  Haas-Heye:  President  & Publisher  Terri  Czeczko:  Art  Director 
Published  every  28  days  which  includes  special  issues  in  April  arxd  November  by 
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RUDY  RUCK6R 

HRCKER 

ma  THE 


STELLAR  RANGER 
by  Steve  Perry 

On  the  galaxy’s  backwater  worlds,  when  the  local 
law  is  not  enough,  you  can  always  call  the  Stellar 
Rangers.  A brand-new  SF  adventure  series  by  the 
highly  successful  author  of  Matadora  and  The 
Man  Who  Never  Missed. 

THE  GATES  OF  NOON 
by  Michael  Scott  Rohan 

A sequel  to  the  well-reviewed  Chase  The  Morning 
by  the  author  of  the  Winter  Of  The  Worid  series. 

“Infused  with  the  energies  of  the  classic  adventure 
novels....  Lively  and  suppied  with  great  characters.... 
Bravo!”  — Locus 

FIRELORD 
by  Parke  Godwin 

The  acclaimed  author  of  Sherwood  presents  a 
dazzling  retelling  of  the  Arthurian  l^end,  narrated 
by  the  great  king  himself  amid  the  collapse  of  the 
Roman  Empire  in  Britain. 


THE  HACKER  AND  THE  ANTS 
by  Rudy  Rucker 

A new  SF  novel  by  the  successful  author  of 
Software,  Wetware  and  The  Hoiiow  Earth. 

“A  genius...a  cuK  hero  among  discriminating 
cyberpunks.”  — Sou  Diego  Union 

“Rucker  never  wants  for  new  inventions. 

— The  Washington  Post  Book  Worid 

An  AvoNova  Book/Wiiliam  Morrow  Hardcover 


COMING  IN  MAY  1994 


#Aavon  books 

The  Heorst  Corporation 
Printed  in  the  U.S.A. 


EDITORIAL 

CHANGES  by  Gardner  Dozois 


Change  has  come  once  again  to 
Asimov’s,  but,  unlike  the  last  few 
changes,  when  we  had  the  sad  duty 
of  reporting  to  you  the  tragic 
deaths  of  Isaac  Asimov  and  Baird 
Searles,  these  are  positive 
changes,  changes  that  we’re  actu- 
ally glad  to  announce.  What  a 
relief! 

First,  I’m  proud  and  happy  to  an- 
nounce that,  starting  with  our  July 
issue,  Robert  Silverberg’s  popular 
column  “Reflections”  will  be  mov- 
ing to  the  pages  of  Asimov’s,  where 
it  will  be  a regular  monthly 
feature. 

Robert  Silverberg  is  one  of  the 
most  famous  SF  writers  of  modern 
times,  with  dozens  of  novels,  an- 
thologies, and  collections  to  his 
credit,  as  well  as  five  Nebula 
Awards  and  four  Hugo  Awards.  (In 
case  you’ve  been  living  under  a 
rock  for  the  last  few  decades,  a par- 
tial mention  of  Silverberg’s  best- 
known  works  would  include  famous 
titles  such  as  Dying  Inside,  Born 
with  the  Dead,  Lord  Valentine’s 
Castle,  The  World  Inside,  and  King- 
doms of  the  Wall.)  “Reflections,”  his 
monthly  column  of  opinion  and 
commentary  on  science  fiction,  the 
science  fiction  professional  and 
fannish  scenes,  the  cutting  edge  of 
scientific  speculation,  and  the 


shape  of  modem  society  (among 
dozens  of  other  topics)  has  been 
running  in  Amazing  to  an  enthusi- 
astic response  for  several  years,  and 
we’re  happy  to  be  able  to  offer  it  to 
our  readers  now  as  a regular  fea- 
ture. Bob  has  had  a long  associa- 
tion with  Asimov’s  under  several 
succesive  editors,  since  making  his 
first  sale  here  to  George  Scithers  in 
the  ’70s  (several  Silverberg  stories 
from  the  pages  of  Asimov’s  such  as 
“Sailing  to  Byzantium”  and  “Enter 
a Soldier.  Later,  Enter  Another,” 
have  gone  on  to  win  major  awards), 
and  it’ll  be  great  to  now  be  able  to 
feature  him  in  the  magazine  each 
and  every  month.  I once  said  that 
nobody  could  replace  an  Isaac  Asi- 
mov, and,  of  course.  Bob  has  no  in- 
tention of  even  trying  to  do 
that — but  if  there’s  any  writer 
alive  who  can  rival  Isaac  for  sharp- 
ness of  intellect  and  the  breadth, 
depth,  and  variety  of  his  interests, 
it’s  Silverberg,  and  we  think  his 
column  will  be  an  invaluable  addi- 
tion to  the  magazine. 

We  will  also  continue  to  feature 
Guest  Editorials  from  time  to  time 
(we  are  always  on  the  lookout  for 
them),  and,  of  course,  your  re- 
sponse, the  response  of  the  reader- 
ship  at  large,  to  both  Silverberg’s 
“Reflections”  column  and  the 


4 


Guest  Editorials  is  not  only  wel- 
come, but  actively  solicited.  We 
welcome  such  feedback,  and  the 
most  interesting  letters  of  this  sort 
will  definitely  be  featured  in  our 
letters  column  on  a regular  basis. 

Our  next  announcement  is  that, 
after  an  exhaustive  search  (and 
boy,  was  it!  Have  you  ever  tried  to 
read  your  way  through  a slush  pile 
consisting  of  hundreds  of  sample 
reviews  and  critical  articles?  My 
advice  is,  don’t!)  we  have  come  up 
with  a replacement  for  the  late 
Baird  Searles,  our  regular  book  re- 
viewer for  many  years.  It  would  no 
doubt  have  amused  Baird  to  learn 
that  it  takes  three  people  to  replace 
him — for  we  have  decided  to  rotate 
the  “On  Books”  column  through  a 
sequence  of  three  different  review- 
ers, and  so  Moshe  Feder,  Peter 
Heck,  and  Paul  Di  Filippo  will  be 
sharing  the  reviewing  slot  on  a ro- 
tating basis.  In  addition,  Norman 
Spinrad’s  column  will  continue  as 
usual,  so,  in  effect,  we  will  be  fea- 
turing four  different  critical  voices 
in  Asimov’s  which  should,  we 
hope,  give  us  balanced  coverage  of 
a very  wide  range  of  different 
kinds  of  books,  across  a wide  spec- 
trum of  tastes  and  sensibilites.  The 
first  of  the  new  reviewers  starts  in 
this  very  issue;  turn  to  Sheila  Wil- 
liams’s introduction  to  “On  Books” 
on  page  166  for  more  details  of  this 
plan,  and  for  biographical  sketches 
of  our  three  new  reviewers. 

So,  to  all  of  the  new  additions  to 
the  magazine;  Welcome  Aboard! 
And  when  I have  to  come  to  you 
again  with  changes,  may  they  al- 
ways be  as  pleasant  as  these!  # 

EDITORIAL;  CHANGES 


GARDNER  DOZOIS: 

Editor 

SHEILA  WILLIAMS: 

Executive  Editor 

IAN  RANDAL  STROCK: 

Associate  Editor 

scon  L.  TOWNER: 

Associate  Editor 

JEAN  TRAINA: 

Design  Director 

TERRI  CZECZKO: 

Art  Director 

ANTHONY  BARI: 

Junior  Designer 

MARILYN  ROBERTS: 

Senior  Production  Manager 

CAROLE  DIXON: 

Production  Manager 

CYNTHIA  MANSON: 

Director  of  Marketing  and  Subsidiary  Rights 

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Controcts  Manager 

BARBARA  PARROH: 

Director  of  Newsstand  Circulation 

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Director  of  Circulotion  Subscription  Soles 

LESLIE  GUARNIERI: 

Renewal  and  Billing  Manager  Subscription  Sales 

JUDY  DORMAN: 

Advertising  Soles  Monager 


ISAAC  ASIMOV: 

Editorial  Director 
(1977-1992) 


CHRISTOPH  HAAS-HEYE: 

President  and  Publisher 
Dell  Magazines 


FRED  SABLOFF: 

Assoclote  Publisher 
Dell  Magazines 


JACK  HOEFT 

President  and  CEO 

Bantam  Doubledoy  Dell  Publishing  Group.  Inc. 

ADVERTISING  OFFICES 
NEW  YORK 

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ADVERTISING  REPRESENTATIVE 

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5 


WMmM 


W>« 


Damon  Knight 

Damon  Knight  tells  us  the  following  tale  was  inspired  by  something  he  saw  in 
the  window  of  a Hindu  shop  in  Dublin,  and  by  a visit  to  an  excavated  Roman 
villa  at  Fishbourne  in  Sussex,  England.  While  there,  he  held  in  his  hand  "an 
oil  lamp  that  Drusilla  might  have  used.  It  was  no  bigger  than  a sparrow,  and  I 
didn't  want  to  give  it  back."  Mr.  Knight's  most  recent  novel,  Why  Do  Birds, 
was  published  by  Tor  in  1 992. 

S art:  Ron  Chironna 


Drusilla  awoke  in  the  little  bed  at  the  foot  of  the  big  bed,  the  matrimo- 
nial bed  that  she  had  occupied  with  three  husbands,  two  of  them  at  the 
same  time.  The  lamp  was  smoking;  she  felt  thick-headed,  as  she  usually 
did  in  the  mornings  now.  What  had  she  forgotten?  Oh,  yes — this  was  to 
be  her  son’s  fortyday. 

Her  bladder  was  full.  She  put  her  feet  down  on  the  cold  tiles,  crossed 
to  the  commode  and  sat  there;  it  was  almost  too  high  for  her,  but  there 
was  another,  a little  one,  beside  it.  That  was  her  future. 

When  she  stood  up  and  turned  around,  the  stranger  was  standing  just 
outside  the  lamplight.  “Does  it  distress  you  that  your  son  Rufus  is  older 
than  you  are?”  he  said. 

“He  is  not  older.” 

‘Taller,  then.” 

“He  was  always  taller.” 

He  looked  at  her.  “Does  it  distress  you  that  you  now  look  like  a child 
of  ten?” 

“Yes,  but  it’s  natural.” 

“If  it’s  natural,  why  should  it  distress  you?” 

“Why  do  you  keep  asking  these  questions?” 

But  he  was  gone,  and  Numilia  was  coming  in.  The  slave’s  hands  were 
empty;  where  were  the  little  gift  baskets?  “Are  there  no  visitors  today?” 
Drusilla  asked.  She  was  still  not  quite  awake. 

“Rufus  is  seeing  the  clients,  by  his  order.  He  told  me  to  tell  you  last 
night,  but  you  were  sleeping  so  nicely.” 

Drusilla  said  nothing  for  a moment.  “I  can  have  you  thrashed.” 

“Oh,  mistress,  forgive  me.”  Smiling,  the  slave  made  an  exaggerated 
gesture  of  terror. 

“Get  out.” 

Numilia  retreated,  with  a gleam  of  satisfied  malice  in  her  eye.  Drusi- 
lla’s  reign  as  mistress  of  the  house  was  over,  the  slave  had  just  reminded 
her;  well,  she  knew  that,  but  Rufus  could  have  waited  one  more  day. 

She  took  off  the  gown  she  had  slept  in  and  put  on  a clean  one,  and  a 
cloak  because  the  morning  was  cool.  Perhaps  she  would  dress  herself 
from  now  on;  she  had  noticed  lately  that  she  was  embarrassed  to  let  even 
a slave  look  at  her  boy’s  breasts  and  her  downy  pubis  like  the  head  of  a 
chick. 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  colonnade.  The  farther  half 
of  the  enclosed  garden  lay  in  deep  shadow;  in  the  nearer  half,  the  trees 
and  statues  were  glimmering  with  dew. 

It  was  about  the  second  hour;  a thread  of  smoke  rose  from  the  kitchen. 
A few  slaves  were  moving  about  on  errands;  the  rest  stood  or  squatted 
in  the  colonnade,  waiting  for  orders. 

Three  share-crop  farmers,  led  by  a slave,  emerged  from  the  atrium  and 

8 DAMON  KNIGHT 


started  around  the  colonnade  toward  Rufus’s  room.  Drusilla  returned 
their  greetings,  but  when  two  more  appeared,  she  crossed  the  garden 
hurriedly  to  the  passage  beyond  the  kitchen,  opened  the  outer  door  and 
went  into  the  courtyard.  She  walked  past  the  kitchen  garden  and  the 
compost  heap  covered  with  the  stalks  of  the  summer’s  harvest,  then  past 
the  dormitory,  the  kennels  and  stables,  to  the  swine  pen  where  a dozen 
shoats  ran  up  to  greet  her. 

Then  across  the  dark  creaking  bridge,  hearing  the  unseen  water  talk- 
ing to  itself  underneath,  and  up  again,  a long  uphill  stride  into  the 
listening  silence  of  the  pines.  From  here  she  could  look  out  over  the 
meadows  and  the  dawn-rimmed  Etruscan  hills,  a view  that  always  gave 
her  pleasure. 

The  elder  of  her  first  two  husbands  had  planted  most  of  these  trees; 
wood  was  the  estate’s  chief  source  of  income  now,  grapes  and  olives  next, 
then  the  pottery  and  the  sheep  and  swine,  and  their  little  plot  of  wheat 
last. 

A bird  called,  clear  and  cold,  somewhere  up  in  the  branches;  then 
another. 

Without  turning  her  head  she  knew  that  the  stranger  was  standing 
beside  her.  “Tell  me,”  he  said,  “what  happens  to  birds?  Do  they  go  back 
into  the  egg?” 

“Don’t  you  know?  When  they  are  too  small  to  fly,  other  animals  eat 
them.  Except  the  swallow  that  buries  itself  in  the  mud  until  it  is  reborn 
in  the  spring.” 

“Where  did  you  learn  that?” 

“Everybody  knows  it.” 

He  was  gone,  and  she  felt  lightheaded,  perhaps  because  she  had  been 
angry  before,  or  because  she  wanted  her  breakfast.  A fragment  of  verse 
was  drifting  through  her  mind: 

The  swallow  tunnels  in  the  mire; 

Shall  I prefer  the  water,  or  the  fire? 

Speak,  Muses  . . . 

She  turned  to  go  down  the  hill,  and  after  a few  steps  found  that  she 
had  broken  into  a run  without  meaning  to.  It  was  indecorous  at  her  age, 
but  perhaps  no  one  would  see  her,  and  after  all,  what  if  they  did?  The 
exercise  warmed  her  and  made  her  limbs  supple;  she  was  smiling  when 
she  reached  the  bottom. 

In  part  of  the  kitchen  garden,  where  beanstalks  among  the  scattered 
straws  had  begun  their  retreat  into  the  earth,  slaves  were  putting  up 
trestle  tables.  She  watched  them  a moment,  then  entered  the  house  and 
went  to  the  larder. 

As  she  emerged  carrying  her  herbs  and  spices,  Thessalus  the  cook 


FORTYDAY 


9 


came  out  into  the  colonnade  in  his  soiled  gown  and  burst  into  a com- 
plaint. “Lady,  no  ’elp  good  in  kitchen.  ’Ow  I do? — ” 

“Oh,  for  heaven’s  sake,  talk  in  Greek.  You  sound  like  an  owl.” 

He  said  with  dignity,  “You  asked  me  before  not  to  speak  Greek  to  you, 
in  order  to  practice  my  Latin  which  offends  you,  but  as  you  wish,  it 
doesn’t  matter,  I only  want  to  say  that  these  swineherds  are  of  no  use  in 
the  kitchen  and  only  hinder  me.  I have  asked  you  to  buy  another  kitchen 
helper,  but  I really  need  two.  It  is  bad  enough  on  ordinary  days,  but  now, 
when  we  are  at  heads  and  tails  getting  ready  for  the  banquet ...” 

“Is  the  bread  doughy  again?” 

He  glared  at  her.  “The  bread?  He  is  trying  hard  to  make  it  better.  It 
is  good  bread.  It  is  not  yet  excellent,  but  he  is  doing  his  best,  mistress. 
Please  don’t  begin  that  again.  I will  see  to  it  that  he  does  his  best.” 

“See  that  you  do  yours,  too.” 

The  cook  turned  with  a muttered  exclamation  and  hurled  himself  into 
the  kitchen,  where  she  heard  him  shouting  at  the  other  slaves.  She 
moved  off  down  the  colonnade  toward  the  front  of  the  house. 

She  had  sent  a message  nine  days  ago  to  a neighbor,  asking  for  the 
loan  of  his  cook,  and  he  had  aj^eed,  but  there  was  some  difficulty — the 
slave  was  ill,  and  might  not  be  able  to  come.  But  she  could  hardly  tell 
Thessalus  all  that  without  seeming  to  apologize. 

On  the  way  to  the  atrium  she  looked  in  for  a moment  on  her  last 
husband,  Quinctius,  who  lay  red  and  wrinkled  on  the  folded  cloth  in  his 
basket.  A pregnant  young  slave,  kneeling  beside  him  with  a fly-whisk, 
watched  her  without  speaking.  She  reminded  herself  to  speak  to  Rufus 
later:  was  the  child  his,  and  would  he  raise  or  expose  it  when  it  was 
bom? 

In  the  corner  gleamed  the  seated  life-size  carving  of  Priapus,  where 
Quinctius  would  go  when  he  was  small  enough  to  rest  in  the  hollow  at 
the  tip  of  the  god’s  erect  wooden  pizzle. 

It  was  understood  that  Calpurnia  would  do  the  honors,  making  it 
possible  for  Quinctius  to  be  rebora  as  her  next  child.  It  was  not  considered 
likely  that  she  would  have  another  child,  but  the  alternative  would  be  a 
slave  or  a prostitute.  At  any  rate,  Calpurnia  might  enjoy  the  god’s  phal- 
lus well  smeared  with  goose-grease;  she  complained  often  enough  that 
she  never  saw  Rufus’s. 

The  arms  and  legs  of  the  little  red  person  moved  feebly;  his  eyes  were 
closed,  those  fierce  eyes;  his  mouth  opened  and  shut,  but  there  was  no 
sound.  That  was  better;  for  almost  six  months  he  had  roared  incessantly, 
and  nothing  could  be  done  to  soothe  him. 

She  had  been  fifty-one  when  they  married,  and  he  fifty-six,  a man  in 
his  full  strength.  For  ten  years  he  had  astonished  her  with  his  vigor  in 
bed.  It  was  the  best  time  for  both  of  them,  because  they  were  both  past 


10 


DAMON  KNIGHT 


forty  and  growing  younger.  When  the  ten  years  were  over,  she  had  been 
to  all  appearance  a young  matron  not  yet  twenty,  he  a youth  of  fourteen. 

After  that  they  had  another  few  years  of  tender  dalliance,  gradually 
more  condescending  on  her  part.  Then  the  last  years  came,  and  they 
were  difficult  for  him,  especially  so  because  of  all  the  trouble  he  had  with 
his  teeth.  She  had  borne  his  rages  as  best  she  could;  after  a time  he 
seemed  to  forget  who  he  was,  and  ran  and  shouted  with  the  children. 
Now  she  visited  him  several  times  a day;  she  felt  that  she  could  talk  to 
him  in  his  stillness  as  she  never  had  been  able  to  do  when  he  was  moving 
about. 

Of  her  first  two  husbands,  one  had  been  older  than  she  and  one 
younger.  Fortius,  the  younger  one,  had  suffered  an  affliction  in  his  right 
arm  just  before  he  turned  forty;  afterward,  instead  of  healing  he  died 
and  was  cremated;  it  was  a great  disgrace  to  the  family  and  his  name 
was  not  spoken. 

Behind  her  the  stranger  said,  “Do  you  wish  things  were  otherwise? 
Would  it  be  better  to  die  as  Fortius  did,  without  warning?” 

“No,  of  course  not.  Death  is  for  animals.”  The  slave  glanced  up  incuri- 
ously, then  returned  her  attention  to  the  fly-whisk. 

“There  are  accidents,”  he  said,  “and  soldiers  sometimes  die  in  battle.” 

“That’s  different.  Soldiers  try  not  to  kill  each  other,  but  they  know  the 
risk  they  take.” 

“But  you,  you  take  no  risk.  You  know  what’s  going  to  happen  and 
when.” 

“Yes.  Don’t  you?” 

“Oh,  no.  In  my  country,  no  one  grows  young  after  forty.  We  all  grow 
older  instead,  until  we  are  so  sick  that  we  die.  But  no  man  knows  the 
day  and  hour.” 

“How  absurd!  Wasteful,  too.  Why  do  you  stand  for  it?” 

There  was  no  reply;  he  was  gone  again. 

In  the  atrium,  smoke  was  going  everywhere  except  through  the  hole 
in  the  roof.  She  arranged  her  offerings  before  the  little  household  goddess 
in  her  niche,  and  lighted  the  incense  with  a twig  from  the  fire.  When  she 
left,  slaves  were  coming  in  with  ladders  and  pails  to  clean  the  blackened 
frescoes  on  the  ceiling,  although  the  smoke  was  so  dense  that  they  could 
barely  see. 

It  was  now  the  third  hour,  and  slaves  and  children  were  gathering 
around  the  sunlit  garden  to  watch  the  priest’s  two  assistants  putting 
stakes  in  the  ground  to  build  the  Janus  hut. 

It  was  always  the  same,  a round  hut  of  wattle  roofed  with  straw,  with 
a hide  curtain  for  a door.  There  was  nothing  especially  mysterious  about 
it,  in  Drusilla’s  view,  but  only  those  dedicated  to  Janus  could  build  it  or 
take  it  down. 


FORTYDAY 


11 


The  last  of  the  clients  were  coming  out  of  Rufus’s  room  now.  She  went 
into  the  family  dining  room,  where  slaves  were  laying  the  table  for 
breakfast;  she  sat  down  and  took  some  bread  and  olives.  Presently  Ru- 
fus’s wife  Calpurnia  entered  with  her  two  children  and  their  nanny,  and 
finally  Rufus  himself,  who  sat  down  and  helped  himself  to  cheese  with  a 
great  stir.  “You  might  have  waited,”  he  said  to  Drusilla  when  he  saw 
her  eating. 

“So  might  you,”  she  said. 

Rufus  took  a bite  and  chewed,  staring  at  her,  then  rose  from  his  chair 
and  walked  around  the  table.  “Get  up,”  he  said  to  his  daughter  Prima, 
who  was  sitting  beside  Drusilla.  Rufus  sat  down  in  the  vacated  chair 
(Prima  meanwhile  giving  him  a reproachful  glance),  and  said,  “Mother, 
we’ve  got  to  live  together  in  this  house,  and  it’s  better  to  have  an  under- 
standing.” 

“Yes,”  she  said. 

“There  can’t  be  two  masters.” 

“No.” 

“But  I’ll  ask  your  advice  whenever  I need  it,  and  you  can  be  of  great 
help  to  me,  as  long  as  you  understand.  Is  it  agreed?” 

“Yes,  Rufus.” 

“Good,  then.”  He  leaned  nearer  and  said,  “Give  me  just  a word  before 
the  ceremony.  After  all,  you’re  my  mother.  How  much  does  it  really 
hurt?” 

She  kept  her  mouth  closed  and  did  not  look  at  him. 

“Oh,  well,  if  you  lived  through  it,  I suppose  I can  too.”  He  went  back 
to  his  seat,  displacing  Prima  again,  and  spoke  sharply  to  little  Secundus, 
who  had  a sulky  expression  and  was  pounding  the  cheese  with  his  fist. 

“I  don’t  care,”  Secundus  shouted,  and  kicked  the  table.  Rufus  gestured 
to  the  nanny,  who  rose  and  took  Secundus  away  screaming.  Then  the 
butler  appeared  with  his  accounts.  Drusilla  got  up,  and  Calpurnia  did 
too. 

“He  kept  me  awake  all  night,”  Calpurnia  said  as  they  left.  She  was 
pale  and  looked  more  haggard  than  usual. 

“Rufus  was  always  a fearful  child.  It  will  be  all  right  when  it’s  over.” 

In  the  courtyard  a little  slave  girl  was  weaving  flowers  into  straw  hats 
for  the  banquet.  Clattering  sounds  came  from  the  kitchen.  “I’ll  be  glad, 
too,  when  it’s  over,”  said  Calpurnia. 

At  noon  when  Rufus  and  Calpurnia  retired  for  their  nap,  Drusilla 
stayed  awake  and  made  sure  the  door  slaves  were  at  their  posts.  Toward 
the  eighth  hour  guests  began  to  arrive:  landowners  from  neighboring 
estates,  and  the  same  farmers  who  had  come  in  the  morning,  now  with 
their  wives  and  children  in  tow. 

Marcus  Pollio  bustled  toward  her  with  elaborate  apologies.  “Dear 


12 


DAMON  KNIGHT 


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Drusilla,  about  my  cook — well,  to  tell  you  the  truth  it  wasn’t  he  who  was 
indisposed,  it  was  my  wife,  who  felt  she  could  not  do  without  the  special 
meals  he  prepared  for  her.  She  sends  her  regrets.  She  is  feeling  better 
now,  but  preferred  not  to  travel.  I hope  you  were  not  inconvenienced.” 

“No,  it  was  nothing.  Please  give  it  no  more  thought,  Marcus.” 

“You’re  very  kind.”  Bowing  and  smiling,  he  went  away  to  talk  to  Rufus. 
Then  the  carriages  from  more  distant  places  began  to  roll  up,  and  for  a 
while  the  vestibule  was  full  of  guests  complaining  about  the  bad  roads, 
while  foot  slaves  helped  them  off  with  traveling  shoes  and  into  sandals. 
Gifts  were  piling  up  on  a table  in  the  atrium. 

Drusilla’s  sister  Serena  from  Rome  appeared,  and  they  embraced;  they 
had  been  companions  in  first  childhood,  and  still  felt  a great  affection 
for  each  other  although  they  seldom  met.  There  was  no  time  to  talk, 
because  Calpumia’s  mother  and  father,  both  in  their  vigorous  second 
youth,  were  bustling  through  the  entrance. 

The  courtyard  was  full  of  drivers  and  outriders  unharnessing  their 
horses,  slave  children  running  about  underfoot,  dogs  barking  and  women 
shouting.  One  of  the  carriages  had  broken  an  axle  and  was  blocking  the 
way  of  others.  Rufus  had  gone  to  his  room  with  Calpumia  and  her  par- 
ents. Drusilla,  summoned  by  the  butler,  got  four  husky  slaves  to  support 
the  leaning  carriage  at  one  comer  while  other  slaves  dragged  it  out  of 
the  way.  Somehow  in  the  confusion  one  of  the  dogs  was  run  over,  and 
yelped  piercingly  until  one  of  the  outriders  killed  it  with  his  sword. 

On  the  way  back,  she  noticed  Rufus’s  daughter  sitting  in  a corner  of 
the  courtyard,  almost  hidden  behind  the  carriages.  Drusilla  hesitated; 
she  really  did  not  have  time,  but  she  went  to  the  child  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  They  were  almost  the  same  height.  “Well,  what  is  it,  has 
someone  been  cruel  to  you?” 

“No,  it  isn’t  that.” 

“Then  it  must  be  something  else.  You  may  as  well  tell  me.” 

The  child  bit  her  lip.  “Will  he  be  different  afterward?” 

“After  the  ceremony?  No,  there’s  nothing  magical  about  it.  The  cere- 
mony won’t  change  him.” 

“Nanny  says  it  will.” 

“Nanny  is  a fool.  Your  father  will  be  just  the  same  to  you  as  he  always 
was,  no  better,  no  worse.  Besides,  you’ll  be  going  to  school  next  year. 
Will  you  like  that?” 

“I  don’t  know.  Sometimes  I’m  afraid.” 

“And  your  breasts  hurt?  And  you  wake  up  sometimes  in  the  night,  and 
cry?” 

“Yes.  Grandmother,  sometimes  I’m  afraid  of  everything.”  Tears  filled 
her  eyes,  and  she  leaned  against  Drusilla. 

The  closeness  of  the  sweaty  young  body  called  up  memories;  it  was 


14 


DAMON  KNIGHT 


pleasant  and  repugnant  at  the  same  time.  Drusilla  said,  “Do  you  remem- 
ber when  you  were  much  younger,  how  you  were  afraid  of  things  that 
don’t  frighten  you  now?” 

The  girl’s  head  nodded.  “But  then  I was  a baby.” 

“The  rest  will  be  just  the  same.  We’re  always  afraid  before  something 
happens,  and  then  we  see  that  it  was  nothing.  When  you  go  to  bed,  tell 
yourself,  ‘This  won’t  matter  by  tomorrow  night.’  ” 

The  girl  released  her  and  smiled.  “I’ll  try.  Thank  you.  Grandmother.” 

Drusilla  arose  and  went  into  the  colonnade,  where  the  household  and 
all  the  guests  were  gathering.  It  was  a little  before  the  tenth  hour.  One 
of  the  priest’s  assistants  walked  out  into  the  garden,  stood  in  front  of  the 
Janus  hut,  and  beat  a gong  for  silence.  Then  the  second  assistant  ap- 
peared, carrying  the  sacred  implements.  These  were  wrapped  to  conceal 
them  from  profane  eyes,  but  it  was  not  hard  to  see  what  Drusilla  already 
knew,  that  one  was  a rod,  one  a basin,  one  a lantern,  and  the  fourth  a 
sword.  'The  assistants  entered  the  hut  and  came  out  empty-handed.  One 
of  them  went  to  the  kitchen  and  returned  with  two  jugs,  which  he  depos- 
ited inside  the  hut  as  well. 

Then  the  priest  appeared  with  Rufus,  who  was  wearing  a robe  so 
tattered  and  dirty  that  he  must  have  borrowed  it  from  the  cook.  The 
priest  was  carrying  a bundle  that  Drusilla  recognized:  it  was  the  new 
toga  made  from  wool  spun,  dyed,  and  woven  here  on  the  estate. 

Rufus  conferred  with  the  priest  a moment;  then  the  priest  and  the  two 
assistants  closed  around  him  and  marched  him  into  the  hut  while  the 
guests  and  household  looked  on. 

The  hide  curtain  fell,  and  there  was  silence,  but  Drusilla  remembered 
and  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  darkness.  First  they  would  strip  him 
bare,  and  make  him  sit  on  a low  stool  between  them,  with  the  priest  in 
front  and  the  slaves  behind.  They  would  let  him  wait  a while. 

Now  the  priest  would  be  saying,  “In  this  warm  water  were  you  bom 
naked,  and  this  milk  was  your  first  food.”  Here  the  slaves  drenched  Rufus 
with  water  from  the  basin,  then  pulled  his  head  back  and  poured  milk 
into  his  face. 

“These  bitter  herbs  made  you  weep.”  One  of  the  slaves  would  rub  a 
paste  of  onions  and  garlic  into  his  eyes.  “Weep  now  for  your  first  child- 
hood, your  first  youth  and  your  first  manhood,  for  they  are  done.  Out  of 
the  darkness  you  came  ...”  (here  the  slave  uncovered  the  lantern  and 
shone  it  into  his  face)  “. . . and  into  the  darkness  you  go  . . .”  (the  slave 
covered  the  lamp  again),  “.  . . but  not  until  you  have  had  your  second 
manhood,  your  second  youth  and  your  second  childhood.” 

Blinded  and  weeping,  he  was  made  to  get  up  and  stand  on  the  stool. 
“You  stand  now  at  the  summer  of  your  life,  looking  backward  and  looking 
forward.  This  moment  will  not  come  again.  Remember  it.” 


FORTYDAY 


15 


Then  a blow  on  the  back  that  made  him  cry  out  (they  heard  the  cry 
where  they  stood  watching),  and  the  salt  rubbed  into  the  wound.  (An- 
other cry,  more  anguished  than  the  first.) 

Now  the  slave  would  be  wiping  his  face  with  a cloth  dipped  in  water, 
then  drying  it  until  he  could  see  again. 

“Will  you  loyally  serve  the  tribe,  your  family,  your  household,  and  the 
city  and  empire?  Think  before  you  speak.”  Here  the  lantern  was  opened 
again,  and  the  second  slave  held  up  his  sword. 

“Do  you  know  and  understand  the  penalty  for  breaking  this  oath?” 

He  would  respond,  as  he  had  been  taught,  “If  I break  this  oath,  I must 
be  cut  off  from  tribe,  family,  household,  city,  and  empire.” 

“Remember  it.”  Another  blow,  another  rubbing  of  salt.  This  time  he 
was  silent,  (jood. 

“Will  you  serve  the  gods  of  your  mothers,  never  blaspheming  or  ne- 
glecting them?” 

“I  will.” 

A third  blow,  the  last.  The  priest  would  dip  another  cloth  in  the  basin 
and  begin  to  wash  his  body.  “In  this  water  I wash  away  your  old  life  and 
begin  the  new.” 

Now  the  slaves  would  be  dressing  him  in  the  toga  sapientis  with  its 
purple,  green,  and  white  stripes.  “Wear  this  garment  in  token  of  new 
life.  From  this  day  you  join  the  company  of  men,  women,  and  gods.” 

The  door  of  the  hut  opened,  and  here  he  was  now,  looking  splendid  in 
his  new  toga,  but  sober  and  red-eyed.  The  guests  surged  into  the  garden 
and  surrovmded  him.  When  her  turn  came,  Drusilla  embraced  him  and 
said  a word  or  two.  “Thanks,”  said  Rufus,  seeming  to  look  beyond  her. 
Then  the  press  of  people  forced  her  out,  and  she  went  back  to  the  col- 
onnade. 

The  priest  was  there,  pulling  off  his  gloves.  “It  went  very  well,  very 
well,”  he  was  saying.  “Might  I have  a drop  of  something  to  drink?” 

One  of  the  slaves  dipped  him  a cup  of  tempered  wine;  he  poured  a little 
on  the  ground  and  drank  the  rest  thirstily.  “It’s  dry  work,  you  know,”  he 
said. 

Because  of  the  unexpected  guests  the  dining  room  was  more  crowded 
than  was  proper;  even  though  most  of  the  local  people  were  being  fed 
outside,  there  were  twelve  at  table,  four  on  each  side.  Luckily  Serena 
and  Drusilla  were  together  at  the  head  couch.  “At  last  we  can  talk,” 
Drusilla  said.  “Tell  me  all  your  news.” 

“Well,  I wrote  you  last  year  that  I was  going  to  Jerusalem  to  visit 
Gaius,  didn’t  I?” 

“Yes,  but  I never  heard  a word  afterward,  until  somebody  told  me  you 
were  safely  back  in  Rome.” 

16 


DAMON  KNIGHT 


“And  lucky  to  get  there,  too;  the  ship  just  before  mine  was  lost  in  the 
Internal  Sea.” 

“Thank  the  gods  it  wasn’t  yours,  but  you  always  were  lucky.  How  did 
you  like  Judea?” 

“Well,  I’d  been  there  before,  of  course.  It’s  not  so  bad,  apart  from  the 
natives.  Do  you  remember  that  Jew  who  was  sent  to  Rome  and  crucified 
about  five  years  ago?” 

“Which  one?” 

“Jeshua,  the  one  who  prophesied  the  end  of  the  world  and  said  the 
Emperor  ought  to  repent.” 

“They  all  say  that.  What  about  him?” 

“Well,  they  cut  him  down  when  he  had  finished  his  time,  of  course, 
and  sent  him  home  in  fair  condition  to  Buggerall  or  wherever  he  came 
from,  but  now  his  followers  are  saying  that  he  died  on  the  cross  and  then 
came  back  to  life.” 

“How  absurd.  Does  anyone  believe  that?” 

“Only  his  little  clique,  but  they’re  all  loud  and  abusive.  We  may  have 
to  round  them  up  and  crucify  a few  more  to  teach  them  manners.” 

“It  won’t  work.  Well,  what  did  you  do  when  you  got  back  to  Rome?” 

“I  was  just  in  time  for  the  farewell  to  Cloaca — ^pardon  me,  I mean,  of 
course,  Clodia.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I heard  she  was  due.  Were  many  people  there?” 

Serena  smiled.  “The  consul  attended,  and  about  half  the  Committee, 
and  the  G.G.  knows  who.  The  temple  was  full,  there  must  have  been  at 
least  a thousand  people  outside.  Everybody  was  smiling  when  they  left.” 

“She  was  an  awful  person.” 

“Yes,  and  her  daughters  are  just  like  her.  I’m  afraid.  Well,  and  what 
is  life  going  to  be  for  you  now?” 

“Whatever  Rufus  chooses  to  make  of  it.” 

Serena  looked  at  her  keenly.  “When  things  get  too  much  for  you,  come 
and  visit  me.  Promise.” 

“Yes,  I promise.  You’re  a good  friend,  Serena.  The  last  one  I have.” 

“Let  us  be  all  the  closer  then.” 

After  the  first  course  of  little  cakes,  herbs,  and  cheeses,  the  slaves 
brought  around  thrushes  and  songbirds,  sugared  pork,  ham,  cutlets, 
goose,  and  fat  hen.  Rufus  began  drinking  wine  without  water,  and  when 
the  dessert  came  he  was  singing  joyfully. 

Afterward,  when  the  eating  stopped  but  the  drinking  went  on,  Drusilla 
took  Serena  away  to  her  room.  In  the  light  of  a single  lamp,  they  sat 
listening  to  the  sounds  of  revelry.  “Seven  is  a banquet,  nine  is  a brawl,” 
Serena  quoted. 

“Well,  Rufus  was  worried.  Men  take  these  things  too  seriously.  Do  you 
remember,  when  the  boys  were  practicing  with  their  javelins,  how  we 


FORTYDAY 


17 


used  to  wade  down  the  brook,  and  try  to  catch  rivernymphs  in  the 
shallows?” 

“Yes,  and  we  collected  the  brightest  pebbles  and  took  them  home  in 
baskets.  What  did  you  do  with  yours?” 

“I  kept  them  in  a bowl  of  water  to  look  at,  but  of  course  I had  to  throw 
them  out  when  I dedicated  all  my  toys  to  the  Lar.” 

“You  look  just  as  you  did  then.  It  gave  me  a queer  feeling  when  I saw 
you.” 

“And  I you.  It  seems  a long  time  ago.” 

“Except  in  sleep.” 

“Do  you  dream  of  those  days  too?” 

“Often,  lately.  Were  we  as  happy  then  as  I think?” 

“Probably  not.  Memory  gilds  everything,  doesn’t  it?” 

“Well,  not  everything.  When  I dream  about  Father,  he’s  as  awful  as 
ever.” 

“You  know  what  I mean.” 

“Yes,  I do  know.  And  nobody  else  understands;  that’s  very  sad  in  a 
way,  isn’t  it?” 

After  a moment  the  door  opened  and  the  butler  looked  in.  “Pardon, 
mistress,  but  your  son  is  ill  and  Calpurnia  has  gone  to  bed  with  orders 
not  to  disturb  her.” 

“What’s  the  matter  with  him?” 

“He  is  vomiting,  and  can’t  be  roused.” 

“Bring  him  here.” 

The  butler  withdrew  and  came  back;  behind  him  were  four  men  car- 
rying Rufus;  he  was  groaning  and  white-faced.  “He  looks  poisoned  to 
me,”  Serena  said.  “You’d  better  have  your  slaves  tortured  just  to  make 
sure.” 

“He  drank  too  much.  It’s  not  the  first  time.” 

“As  you  wish,”  Serena  yawned.  “I’m  for  bed,  then,  it’s  been  a long  day.” 

Alone  with  Rufus,  she  sent  for  purgatives,  and  made  him  vomit  again 
and  again.  After  all,  it  was  possible,  even  likely,  that  slaves  had  put 
something  in  his  wine,  but  torturing  them  would  prove  nothing.  Toward 
dawn,  when  he  fell  into  a natural  sleep,  she  left  him,  crossed  the  silent 
courtyard,  unbarred  the  door,  and  slipped  out  into  darkness.  It  was  about 
the  eleventh  hour  of  night;  except  for  a cock  crowing  in  the  farmyard, 
the  world  was  empty. 

When  she  was  halfway  down  to  the  bridge,  she  heard  a distant  discor- 
dant trumpeting  overhead.  Up  there,  so  high  that  they  were  in  daylight 
although  the  rest  of  the  world  was  dark,  two  Vs  of  white  cranes  were 
fiying  home  to  Africa.  She  stood  without  moving  until  they  were  gone. 

Under  the  bridge  she  removed  her  sandals,  tied  up  her  robe  and 
stepped  into  the  fast  shallow  water.  The  pebbles  were  unexpectedly  hard 


18 


DAMON  KNIGHT 


FORTYDAY 


19 


The  author  tells  us  that  although  he  had  thought  out  much  of  the  story  line  for 
"Summer  and  Ice,"  it  sat  in  an  unfinished  state  for  a long  time.  Then  his  editor  at 
AvoNova,  John  Douglas,  "told  me  about  a story  idea  he'd  already  given  to  several 
writers:  an  alien  invasion  of  Earth  that  is  the  equivalent  to  Vietnam,  with  massive 
repercussions  back  on  the  home  planet.  Everything  clicked  then....  John  had  said  that 
while  other  authors  had  used  his  idea,  the  result  was  never  much  like  his  original 
suggestion.  I think  that's  happened  again,  and  that  John's  little  seed  pearl  can  still  be 
given  out  to  others."  Mr.  Jablokov,  who  recently  returned  from  his  honeymoon  in 
Turkey,  is  now  at  work  on  a novel  version  of  "Syrtis"  (Asimov's,  April  1 994). 


SUMMER 

Alexander  Jablokov 


Acceleration  reached  through  the  thin  skin  of  the  lifepod  and  crushed 
Steve  Hardt  flat.  The  Jugur  ship  was  performing  some  high-g  evasive 
maneuver.  He  could  feel  the  roar  as  it  contacted  the  outer  atmosphere. 
Steve  did  a last  check  of  his  reentry  suit’s  functions  and  wished  that 
there  had  been  some  other  way  of  returning  home  to  Earth  than  attached 
to  the  outside  of  an  attacking  alien  warship. 

Trajectory  data  slithered  across  the  reentry  suit’s  helmet  display.  After 
a year  stuck  to  the  hull  disguised  as  part  of  the  superconducting  heat- 
transfer  piping,  invisible  to  the  crew  of  the  spaceship,  it  was  time  to  part 
company.  Steve  relaxed  his  muscles  and  closed  his  eyes.  The  lifepod  blew 
clear. 

Behind  his  closed  eyelids,  the  data  feed  kaleidoscoped  images  into  his 
optic  nerve.  He’d  learned  to  juggle  the  images  mentally,  just  like  a Jugur 
eyemouth.  From  cameras  on  the  structure-tangled  ship  surface:  the  tiny 
lifepod  floated  up  and  vanished  into  the  unmoving  stars.  From  the  front 
of  the  lifepod  interior:  a mirrored  figure  without  a face  slumped  like  a 
miscast  statue.  From  one  external  pod  angle:  the  Jugur  ship  began  to 
segment  under  attack.  From  another  pod  angle:  the  glow  of  reentry  and 
below,  the  Earth. 

The  Earth.  Five  years  since  he  had  seen  it,  two  years  subjective  travel 
time  back  and  forth  and  three  years  on  the  planet  Jugurtha  itself.  Five 
years  subjective  and,  through  the  inexorable  mathematics  of  lightspeed 
transition  travel,  thirty  years  objective.  The  place  was  desperately 
changed.  The  ice  fields  had  extended  far  to  the  south.  The  northern 
hemisphere  was  almost  clear  of  clouds,  and  the  snow  and  ice  glinted  in 
the  sun. 

Steve  felt  himself  trying  to  stare,  as  if  he  could  control  the  cameras 
through  force  of  will.  But  he  saw  nothing  with  his  own  eyes,  and  the 
cameras  had  been  programmed  by  the  independent  Jugur  eyemouths 
that  had  made  his  trip  to  and  from  Jugurtha  possible.  He  could  see 
bright  streaks  at  the  limb  of  the  Earth  as  the  warship’s  independently 
maneuvering  segments  hit  the  atmosphere.  A bright  flash:  Earth’s  defen- 
sive lasers  were  still  operational,  and  one  had  found  its  target. 

Steve  was  a target  too.  He  tried  to  curl  up  into  a ball,  but  the  suit 
wouldn’t  let  him.  What  would  the  reaction  be  back  on  Jugurtha  if  the 
eyemouth  cameras  showed  him  gloriously  burning  up  in  Earth’s  atmo- 
sphere? He  would  become  another  tragic  media  hero,  but  his  political 
effect  would  be  nil.  If  he  was  going  to  die,  he  had  to  do  it  more  effectively. 
He  cleared  his  thoughts.  That  came  later. 

The  outer  layer  of  the  reentering  pod  peeled  off.  A stabilized  camera 
floated  up  with  it,  and  Steve  could  see  the  lifepod  as  it  drilled  toward  the 
planet.  A giant  frame  wing  suddenly  puffed  out  above  the  pod,  turning 


22 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


it  into  a stratospheric  hang  glider.  He  couldn’t  see  any  serious  damage. 
The  camera  tumbled  away  and  went  blind. 

He  dropped  westward  over  Europe.  Behind  him,  just  at  the  horizon,  he 
could  see  the  vast  craters  of  the  comet  strike  in  the  center  of  Eurasia. 
Nothing  now  lived  east  of  the  Urals.  One  comet  fragment  had  doubled 
the  size  of  the  Aral  Sea,  another  had  vaporized  Novosibirsk.  And,  under 
the  cloak  of  cometary  dust,  the  glaciers  marched  down  from  the  north 
once  again.  Thirty  years.  This  was  not  the  world  he  had  left.  He  was 
here  to  defend  a place  he  no  longer  knew  anything  about. 

Still,  the  blue,  green,  and  white  globe  brought  him  a sharp  joy.  He 
could  feel  the  cool  breeze  from  it.  He  wanted  to  reach  out  his  arms  and 
embrace  it.  He  would  be  free  of  the  high  gravity  of  Jugurtha,  free  of  the 
incessant  Juguijur  negotiators,  free  of  the  constant  media  surveillance 
that  been  part  of  his  contract  with  the  eyemouths,  free  to  find  out  if 
Karinth  Tolback  was  still  alive.  Karinth  .... 

He  let  her  rest  on  the  surface  of  his  thoughts  like  a drop  of  dew  on  a 
leaf.  She’d  been  alive  when  he  left  Jugurtha,  but  that  had  been  almost 
fifteen  of  her  years  ago.  Wadded  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a piece  of 
string.  He  and  Karinth  had  burned  string,  that  last  day,  to  mark  their 
parting,  but  he  had  kept  this,  all  the  way  to  Jugurtha  and  back.  How 
mad  she  would  be  if  she  knew!  He  smiled  to  himself  She’d  always  sus- 
pected that  his  little  rituals  were  just  a way  of  gaining  advantage  over 
the  situation. 

Ahead,  America  was  still  shaded  before  dawn.  The  sun  was  just  coming 
up  on  the  ice  packs  around  Nova  Scotia.  Farther  south  the  coast  was 
edged  with  gray:  continental  shelf  revealed  by  the  dropping  water  level. 

His  cameras  flared  and  went  dead.  The  image  feeds  were  destroyed, 
and  blackness  spread  from  inside  his  head.  An  instant  later,  heat  seared 
his  left  side.  He  tried  to  scream  into  his  breather,  but  it  forced  the  sound 
back  into  his  throat.  He  was  cooking,  the  skin  was  crisping  up, 
black  . . . the  suit  cooled  his  burned  skin  with  anaesthetic.  He’d  been  hit 
by  a defensive  orbital  laser.  He  twitched  a muscle,  and  was  relieved  to 
find  that  his  left  arm  still  existed. 

Auxiliary  eyes,  lower  resolution,  opened.  It  took  Steve  a moment  to 
correlate  the  images.  He  was  surrounded  by  a shimmering  glow,  an 
aurora,  as  energy-absorbing  shielding  boiled  off  the  pod  and  formed  an 
ionized  cloud.  The  wing  folded,  dropping  him  on  a random  downward 
path,  and  the  cloud  stayed  above  him  to  serve  as  a decoy  for  further  laser 
attacks. 

Steve  sucked  hot  air  through  his  throat.  Didn’t  the  defenders  of  Earth 
know  he  had  come  back  to  help?  He  felt  like  shouting  at  them.  They  had 
traced  the  approaching  warship  as  it  decelerated  from  translight  speed. 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


23 


its  mass  appearing  on  their  screens  as  an  invisible  hand  knotting  gravi- 
tational geodesics.  They  knew  it  was  coming  with  military  resupply  for 
the  Stoop,  the  independent  Jugur  organization  that  had  invaded  Earth. 
The  human  military  forces  were  fighting  desperately  for  survival,  uncon- 
cerned with  the  complexities  of  intra-Jugur  politics  on  Jugurtha,  or  the 
clarity  of  the  images  supplied  to  the  home  market  by  the  Jugur  eye- 
mouths. 

“Here  I am,”  Steve  whispered  into  his  air  supply.  “Let  me  live,  god- 
damit.” 

His  descent  slowed,  and  he  hung  above  the  slowly  dawn-lit  continent. 
As  the  minutes  went  by  and  no  further  laser  attack  came,  he  relaxed  the 
painful  muscles  between  his  shoulders.  Examining  the  ground  through 
the  auxiliary  optics,  he  traced  the  path  of  the  Mississippi  up  from  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico.  The  Illinois  river  split  off  there,  heading  northeast,  to- 
ward the  gleaming  ice  of  the  Great  Lakes  . . . and  there,  on  the  shore  of 
Lake  Michigan,  was  the  city  of  Chicago.  He  imagined  he  could  see  its 
towers  casting  shadows  across  the  plains. 

He  hummed  to  himself,  like  a child  eating  a favorite  food.  Until  he’d 
found  it,  he  hadn’t  even  been  sure  of  what  he  was  looking  for.  He  and 
Karinth  had  lived  in  Chicago,  together  in  those  last  days  before  his 
departure.  He  remembered  their  town  house,  the  sun  shining  pale  over- 
head through  veils  of  atmospheric  dust.  They  had  stayed  inside  and  made 
love  while  the  world  grew  colder. 

Five  subjective  years  had  passed  for  him,  but  thirty  for  her.  Did  it 
make  sense,  to  search  for  her  there,  as  if  she  had  been  sitting  and  waiting 
for  him,  there  at  the  breakfast  table  with  her  head  turned  away,  a piece 
of  burned  string  in  her  hand? 

Of  course  it  did.  In  response  to  his  thought,  the  suit  gazed  down, 
pattern  matching.  The  natural  features  were  the  same:  the  Appala- 
chians, the  curve  of  the  Ohio.  The  human  ones  had  changed.  The  un- 
plowed roads  had  the  reflectance  of  open  fields.  Outlying  houses  and 
villages  had  been  burned  and  abandoned,  and  showed  no  IR  signatures. 
Broken-spined  bridges  rested  their  spans  in  the  ice.  After  some  medita- 
tion, the  suit  found  enough  visible-light  matches  to  guide  him. 

Feeling  an  entirely  inappropriate  exhilaration,  Steve  Hardt  floated 
toward  Earth. 

The  reentry  suit’s  mirrored  surface  was  scarred  and  pitted.  It  lay,  a 
discarded  insect  carapace,  in  the  snow,  surrounded  by  chunks  of  the 
disintegrated  pod,  while  Steve  Hardt,  swearing  under  his  breath  and 
shivering  in  the  unaccustomed  cold,  hammered  on  a recalcitrant  joint  on 
the  glidewing.  The  wing  was  supposed  to  convert  neatly  to  a snow  sledge 
for  his  equipment,  but  it  was  resisting,  making  him  wonder  if  the  crash 


24 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


How  can  I find  inner  peace? 


Address 


Rosicrucian 

ORDER 

Rosicrucian  Park.  Depi  GTG  San  Jose.  CA  95191 


had  damaged  it.  Surely  the  planners  on  the  Juguijur  had  known  he 
would  crash.  He  wondered  if  an  eyemouth  camera  was  carefully  re- 
cording his  frustration. 

At  least  they’d  given  him  a hammer  with  the  tool  kit.  He  pulled  it 
back  to  hit  as  hard  as  he  could,  then  stopped.  Karinth  had  always  thought 
he  had  a dysfunctional  relationship  with  mechanical  devices.  What  had 
she  said  once?  He  remembered  her  sitting  cross-legged,  her  slender  fin- 
gers covered  with  gritty  grease,  bicycle  parts  neatly  arranged  in  front  of 
her.  “ ‘One  dollar  for  hitting.  Ninety-nine  dollars  for  knowing  where  to 
hit.’  Know  where  to  hit,  Steve.”  He’d  almost  destroyed  that  damn  bicycle 
trying  to  unstick  the  derailleur.  He  paused  for  a moment  and  looked 
more  closely  at  the  framework.  A simple  rotating  part  had  been  yanked 
from  its  socket.  Steve  tapped  it  gently.  With  a groan  of  bent  struts,  the 
wing  tip  folded  under  and  clicked  into  slots  on  the  runner.  Steve  sat  back 
on  his  haunches  and  breathed  a sigh  of  relief  Thanks  again,  Karinth. 

Behind  him,  at  the  end  of  a slanting  tunnel  marked  by  broken  branches 
and  shattered  tree  trunks,  was  the  sky.  He’d  plowed  through  this  maple 
copse  and  embedded  himself  deeply  in  the  soft  central  Illinois  soil.  It  had 
taken  him  a good  hour  to  dig  his  way  out  of  his  suit,  like  a metamorphos- 
ing grub  emerging  from  the  dirt.  Another  hour,  and  he’d  be  ready  to 
move  out,  to  the  northeast.  He’d  missed  Chicago  by  a good  two  hundred 
kilometers.  Not  too  bad,  he  supposed,  after  a journey  of  eighteen  light 
years,  all  the  way  from  Eta  Cassiopeiae  A.  It  seemed  that  if  he  stood  and 
looked  back  up  the  path  he’d  ripped  through  the  trees,  he  should  be  able 
to  see  the  sun  of  Jugurtha. 

It  had  glowed  in  the  dark  sky  above  the  meeting  ground  of  the  Ju- 
guijur,  its  dimmer  companion.  Eta  Cassiopeiae  B,  just  visible  in  the  sky 
in  the  east,  over  the  mountains  that  thrust  their  way  up  through  the 
jungle. 

“The  Stoop  was  created  for  a specific  purpose,”  old  Bardudur  said.  “The 
invasion  of  Earth.  You  must  forgive  me,  but  it  made  sense  at  the  time.” 
He  drew  breath  through  his  long,  high  snout.  It  had  fallen  in  on  either 
side  of  the  long  nasal  bone,  a sign  of  his  great  age.  “But  now,  even  among 
the  Jugur  of  the  Stoop,  there  is  pressure  for  a change.” 

Wincing,  Steve  took  another  bite  of  the  decaying  meat  on  the  plate. 
He’d  throw  up  later,  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  quarters.  The  Jugur  were 
light-boned  and  delicate,  nothing  like  predators,  and  their  food  was  never 
fresh. 

“But  why?”  Steve  said.  “Why  did  they  do  it  in  the  first  place?” 

Bardudur  put  his  hands  on  either  side  of  Hardt’s  face  and  held  him 
with  delicate,  rubbery  pads. 

“An  expedition  to  conquer  parts  of  a fertile,  if  ecologically  damaged 
planet — a good  risk.  The  Stoop  would  hold  their  areas,  the  natives  would 

26  ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


hold  other  areas,  war  would  be  low-level  but  continuous.  A pleasant  life. 
The  Stoop  represents  something  we  like  in  ourselves.  But  you  try  to 
annihilate  them.  This  they  do  not  enjoy.” 

The  Jugur  as  a species  were  not  territorial,  and  the  idea  of  conquering 
only  parts  of  a planet  didn’t  seem  odd  to  them.  Their  emotional  attach- 
ment was  to  organizations  like  the  Stoop.  It  had  taken  Steve  a long 
time  to  understand  that  the  Jugur  that  had  invaded  Earth  were  an 
independent  group,  far  from  being  representatives  of  the  central  govern- 
ment of  all  Jugur.  No  such  entity  truly  existed,  though  the  Juguijur,  a 
huge  debating  society,  came  the  closest. 

“And  you  think  we  can  push  them  harder,”  Steve  said.  “Push  them  off 
Earth.” 

He  looked  up  at  the  endless  ranks  of  carved  stone  chairs  that  sur- 
rounded the  tiny  party  picnicking  on  the  Juguijur  meeting  ground.  There 
were  thousands  of  them,  and  each  was  different.  They  climbed  up  into 
the  hills.  Each  was  the  seat  of  an  organization,  some  vanished  for  centu- 
ries. The  chairs  remained,  for  they  represented  the  traditions  of  the  race. 
The  Stoop  had  a chair,  a new  one.  Steve  had  examined  it,  but  had  not 
been  permitted  to  sit  in  it. 

“We  will  do  our  best,  friend  Hardt,”  Bardudur  had  replied.  But,  of 
course,  beyond  smuggling  Steve  onto  a Stoop  supply  ship  heading  back 
to  Earth,  the  Juguijur  had  decided  to  do  absolutely  nothing.  It  was  up 
to  Steve  Hardt  and  the  eyemouths  to  convince  them  otherwise,  and  Steve 
didn’t  like  thinking  about  how  far  he  might  have  to  go  to  do  so. 

The  field  to  Steve’s  left  was  alive.  He’d  been  pulling  his  sledge  through 
undisturbed  white  fields  for  three  days,  but  here  bright  green  lettuce 
poked  jauntily  through  the  snow,  leaves  covered  with  waxy  insulation. 
Snow  slumped  around  them,  melted  from  underneath.  Steve  stopped.  He 
didn’t  know  how  things  were  on  Earth  these  days,  but  if  this  was  a 
functioning  farm,  it  made  sense  that  it  was  defended.  In  that  case,  he 
had  already  been  detected.  It  wouldn’t  pay  to  seem  any  more  a threat 
than  he  actually  was.  He  detached  the  sledge  pull  and  stayed  still.  The 
frozen  expanse  of  what  he  had  identified  as  the  Fox  River  stretched  to 
his  right. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and,  one  by  one,  the  refiecting  satellites  appeared 
in  a line  across  the  sky.  They  were,  Steve  figured,  huge  circles  of  mylar 
set  to  refiect  sunlight  down  onto  the  night  side  of  Earth.  Jugur?  Human? 
With  such  a technology,  there  was  no  way  to  tell.  Together,  they  gave 
more  light  than  a full  moon,  and  had  made  setting  up  camp  in  the 
evening  much  easier.  Someone  unconcerned  with  aesthetics  had  ban- 
ished night. 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


27 


Within  a couple  of  minutes  he  heard  the  whine  of  an  electric  snowmo- 
bile. It  whizzed  bouncing  through  the  snow  and  took  up  a position 
screened  by  underbrush.  It  crouched  like  a cyborg  centaur,  the  driver’s 
long  dark  coat  blending  amid  the  tree  trunks. 

“Stand  back!”  the  woman  barked.  “Do  not  approach  any  closer.”  A 
short,  wide-muzzled  gun  pointed  at  his  face.  “Now!” 

Steve  stopped  in  wonder  at  himself.  He  had  been  stumbling  through 
the  snow  toward  her  with  desperate  need.  His  arms  were  stretched  out 
to  pull  her  to  him  and  hold  her.  He  dropped  them  to  his  sides.  Pulse 
pounded  in  his  ears.  He  could  barely  see  the  woman’s  face  beneath  the 
hood  and  goggles. 

“I’m  sorry,”  he  whispered.  “It’s  been  five  years.  I haven’t  seen  a . . . hu- 
man being  in  five  years.  Please.” 

“What  do  you  want?”  Her  mouth  was  a thin  line  on  her  face.  She  wasn’t 
Karinth.  Nothing  at  all  like  Karinth. 

Steve  slowed  his  breathing.  “I  need  to  find  entities  to  negotiate  with. 
'The  military  commanders  in  the  war  against  the  Stoop.  I come  from 
Jugurtha.” 

She  didn’t  react  to  this  astonishing  claim.  “Approach  the  farmhouse 
on  this  road.  One  point  five  kilometers.  Do  not  deviate.  If  you  attempt  to 
produce  weapons,  you  will  be  killed.” 

“Wait!” 

She  backed  and  vanished  with  a mosquito  sound.  Steve  was  alone 
again.  He  shrugged  back  into  his  harness  and  pulled  the  suddenly  heav- 
ier sledge  up  the  road. 

The  next  thing  he  heard  was  the  sound  of  laughter.  He  was  passing 
two  greenhouses  that  seemed  to  be  made  of  ice  sheets.  Huge  green  leaves 
spread  luxuriously  within,  as  if  trapped  by  a glacier.  Below,  at  the  base 
of  the  hill,  was  a pond. 

The  ice  had  been  broken  through  and  lay  in  stacked  slabs  by  the  side 
of  the  water.  Children  frolicked  there,  like  seals.  They  were  swollen  and 
sleek,  their  eyes  hidden  behind  flaps  of  skin.  Steve  recognized  them  as 
human  only  through  an  effort.  They  yelped  and  squealed  with  pleasure, 
in  water  not  a degree  above  freezing. 

“Nice  seconds  today,”  Adalti  said  to  Karinth.  His  long-snouted  Jugur 
face  disappeared  from  the  screen,  replaced  by  an  overhead  shot  of  an 
alley.  Snow-covered  cornices  at  different  heights  made  an  intricate  pat- 
tern of  overlapping  gray-and-white  rectangles,  a pleasing  frame  to  the 
deadly  battle  going  on  below. 

“It  was  a smooth  ambush,”  Karinth  said.  She  sat  in  her  chair  with  a 
glass  of  water  and  watched  the  fight  clinically,  seeking  to  learn  some- 
thing from  her  close  escape.  “They  hung  themselves  up  in  the  rafters  of 


28 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


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an  abandoned  grocery  store.  IR  showed  nothing.  No  carbon  dioxide.  They 
must  have  been  recirculating  their  air.” 

“Why  were  you  out  there?”  Adalti  asked. 

Other  cameras  had  been  positioned  at  the  alley  end,  in  the  second- 
floor  window  of  an  apartment,  out  on  a stalk  from  a sewer  grate.  Had 
Adalti  been  warned  of  the  ambush  ahead  of  time?  She  never  knew,  and 
the  nature  of  their  arrangement  did  not  allow  her  to  ask.  In  general, 
though,  Adalti  was  ready  for  anything,  and  he  moved  faster  than  anyone 
she’d  ever  met.  If  he’d  been  heading  the  Stoop,  rather  than  being  an 
eyemouth,  she  suspected  that  the  war  would  have  been  over  long  ago. 
The  angles  were  crisply  intercut. 

“What?”  The  ambushers  dropped  from  the  ceiling,  through  the  rotted 
acoustic  paneling,  and  burst  out  of  the  plate  glass  window.  Shards  tum- 
bled through  the  air.  For  an  instant,  a rainbow  flickered  in  the  glass 
rain.  Had  Adalti  added  it?  Nice  touch.  Karinth  watched  herself  drop  to 
the  left.  Are  a quick  shot  over  her  shoulder,  then  vault  over  a burnt  c£ir 
hulk.  Good.  Aside  from  letting  herself  get  caught  in  the  first  place,  there 
was  nothing  to  And  fault  with. 

“Why  were  you  out  there?”  Adalti  repeated.  “There  was  no  need  for 
you  to  be  on  that  side  of  the  river.” 

Her  pursuers  were  human  beings,  of  course.  The  nearest  Stoop  Jugur 
were  in  central  Wisconsin.  The  southern  half  of  Lake  Michigan  was 
extremely  well  defended.  She  dropped  and  slid  on  the  ice-covered  pave- 
ment, heading  for  a basement  window.  At  the  last  instant  she  pushed  a 
foot  off  next  to  the  window  and  rolled  back  to  her  feet.  Karinth  remem- 
bered that  instant  of  “oh,  shit”  fear.  The  window,  an  escape  route  she’d 
plotted  out  on  previous  trips  through  the  area,  had  been  too  dark,  the 
reflections  behind  it  wrong.  The  basement  was  a trap  with  someone 
waiting  inside  it.  A shot  of  her  face.  It  showed  no  particular  expression. 
A leathery  old  face,  one  that  had  experienced  things  like  this  a dozen 
times. 

“I  was  ...”  she  said.  “I  was  ...  I needed  to  take  a walk.  Some  fresh 
air.  I hate  being  cooped  up  in  here,  you  know  that.” 

“Of  course.  You  don’t  like  being  safe.” 

Her  pursuers  had  hung  back  just  a little  too  far,  anxious  to  see  her 
sucked  up  into  the  maw  of  the  basement.  Patriotic  scum,  she  thought, 
as  she  watched  them  move  toward  her.  All  Jugur  were  alike  to  them,  all 
enemies:  Stoop,  eyemouth,  the  hypothetical  Jugur  of  the  home  planet. 
These  humans  and  the  Stoop  together  would  turn  the  Earth  into  a sterile 
wasteland. 

She  jumped  off  a car  roof,  grabbed  a window  frame,  and  swung  herself 
up.  For  some  reason,  she  found  herself  seeing  herself  differently  than 
she  ever  had  before.  She  was  a tough,  efficient  cylinder  with  arms  and 


30 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


legs.  Her  hooded  head  was  a bullet.  She  was  meant  to  wear  insulating 
clothes  and  body  armor.  A camisole  . . . why  should  she  remember  a cam- 
isole? It  had  been  thirty  years.  Thirty  real  goddam  years. 

‘That’s  not  it,  Adalti.  You  know  that.” 

“Why  now,  today,  Karinth  Tolback?  It  was  just  a random  attack,  they 
might  have  missed  you,  you  might  have  taken  another  route.  The 
chances  were  good  that  nothing  would  happen  to  you.  Take  a walk.  But 
why  were  you  out  there?” 

“Damn  you,  Adalti,  I — ” She  watched  herself  fire  down  from  the  win- 
dow. Two  of  them,  caught  right  out  in  the  street  like  practice  targets. 
The  others  ducked  and  dove,  and  she  was  through  the  second  fioor  of  the 
apartment  building  and  out  the  other  side  and  she  didn’t  stop  moving 
until  she  got  back  here,  to  the  center  of  the  defenses  provided  for  her  by 
the  Great  Lakes  Consortium. 

“You  know  why,”  she  said,  finally.  “I  wanted  to  look  up  at  the  sky.  I 
wanted  to  think.”  She  paused  to  breathe.  “Do  you  have  any  stuff  of  him 
coming  down?” 

Stars  spangled  the  screen.  It  could  have  been  stock  footage:  a reentry 
pod,  a glidewing,  a long  slide  down  into  the  center  of  the  continent.  It 
could  have  been  anyone  in  that  pod.  Anyone  at  all.  The  pod  crashed 
through  trees,  sending  shattered  branches  and  snow  flying.  The  scene 
cut.  A man  climbed  out  of  the  pod’s  ruins  and  stood  next  to  it,  staring  up 
at  the  sky,  his  feet  once  again  on  his  native  planet. 

Karinth  Tolback  had  been  married  twice.  She  had  had  one  daughter. 
Her  right  shoulder  joint  was  completely  artificial.  It  still  hurt,  late  at 
night.  She’d  lived  an  entire  life,  several.  He  was  back  again.  After  thirty 
years,  Steve  Hardt  was  back. 

The  sun  had  been  pale  on  the  day  Steve  left  the  Earth,  a burning  sore 
seen  through  layers  of  gauze:  a comet  sky.  As  the  sun  sank  toward 
evening,  it  lit  the  entire  western  sky  with  flame,  and  Steve  stopped  for 
a moment  on  the  street  outside  Karinth’s  house  to  watch  it. 

“Hurry  up,  come  in,”  Karinth  said  from  an  upper  window.  She  leaned 
out.  She’d  fluffed  her  short  dark  hair  and  wore  a loose  dressing  gown 
over  a lace-trimmed  camisole.  “Don’t  just  stand  out  there.” 

“I’m  in.  I’m  in.” 

She  flounced  her  hair  and  silently  slid  the  window  shut,  disappearing 
in  a golden  reflection. 

Steve  opened  the  wrought-iron  gate  and  ran  up  the  wood  stairs  to  the 
second-floor  entrance  of  the  old  building.  The  sunsets  upset  her.  To  him 
they  were  just  beautiful,  but  she  could  not  look  at  them  without  thinking 
of  the  comet  crash  that  was  their  cause,  and  the  ice  that  was  its  necessary 
consequence. 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


31 


The  entire  white-painted  front  of  the  house  glowed  rose  and  the  street 
trees  cast  bluish  shadows  on  it.  A brass  knocker  shaped  like  a lion’s  head 
gleamed  on  the  door.  Burning  clouds  sailed  overhead.  He  and  Karinth 
had  reached  final  agreement  with  the  Jugur  eyemouths  through  their 
main  contact,  Adalti.  In  return  for  control  over  his  image,  they  would 
transport  Steve  to  Jugurtha  aboard  an  eyemouth  vessel  and  put  him  in 
contact  with  the  Juguijur.  The  eyemouths  had  no  chair  on  the  Juguijur 
meeting  ground,  and  never  would.  But,  as  Adalti  said,  the  only  reason 
everyone  in  Jugur-controlled  space  knew  what  the  meeting  ground 
looked  like  was  because  of  the  eyemouths. 

A last  furtive  glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the  sun,  a turn  of  the  brass 
door  handle,  and  Steve  was  inside  the  house.  Karinth  was  in  the  kitchen, 
stirring  a pot.  She’d  put  a kitchen  apron  over  her  peignoir,  a sacrifice  of 
grace  to  practicality  that  made  her  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

“Wait!”  she  said.  Then:  “at  least  let  me  put  down  the  spoon.  No,  on  the 
spoon  rest.  There.”  And  a while  later:  “lucky  for  you  I keep  my  kitchen 
floor  so  clean.” 

“Clean  enough  to  screw  off  of,”  he  said.  “How  traditionalist  of  you.” 

Dinner  wasn’t  even  ruined,  though  the  asparagus  was  soft  enough  to 
spread  on  crackers.  They  sat  silently  at  the  candle-lit  dining-room  table. 
Steve  watched  the  flicker  of  her  hooped  earrings.  She  served  dinner  in 
her  camisole,  having  carefully  smoothed  out  the  creases,  and  he  admired 
the  fullness  of  her  body,  which  curved  with  smooth  languidness.  After 
this  night  he  would  never  touch  it  again,  not  this  body,  it  would  be  years 
gone  .... 

“Will  you  remember  me?”  he  asked. 

“Steve!”  she  looked  at  him,  serious.  “You  promised  we  wouldn’t  talk 
about  that.” 

“Well,”  he  said.  “I  lied.” 

She  choked,  uncertain  about  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry,  and  turned 
away.  “You  know  the  answer.  Why  are  you  asking?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  said,  finally.  “Maybe  it’s  because  I feel  like  I’m 
running  away,  leaving  you  to  face  ...  I don’t  know,  war,  ice,  time.  All  of 
it.  This  world  will  be  hell ....  No,  that’s  not  it  at  all.  I’m  running  away, 
and  I’m  still  afraid,  dammit,  Karinth,  I’m  still  afraid.” 

“We’ve  been  over  it,  Steve.  You’re  not  running  away.  You’re  doing 
your  job.  I think  we  can  trust  Adalti  and  his  eyemouths.”  Then  she 
looked  at  him.  “That’s  not  what  I meant.  You  have  a right  to  be  afraid. 
You’ll  be  the  only  human  being  for  eighteen  light  years.  That’s  scary. 
But  I’ll  survive  here.  At  any  rate.  I’ll  do  my  best.  Don’t  worry.” 

He  slumped  his  shoulders,  letting  the  air  out,  then  chuckled.  “Yeah, 
yeah,  right.  I won’t  worry.  You  know,  Adalti  says  I’ll  be  a major  star  on 


32 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


From  the  author  of  Shadow  Twin 


The  Fareland  Theater  is  open  again. 
Business  couldn't  be  better.  And  the 
audience  is  being  treated  to  a double 
feature,  starring  unspeakable  evil  and 
a madness  that  will  overtake  their  souls. 


A NIGHT  AT  THE  MOVIES 
YOU’LL  NEVER  FORGET. 


Jugurtha.  Everyone  will  know  me.  The  eyemouths  will  cover  my  every 
move.” 

She  didn’t  say  anything  more,  so  he  reached  across  the  table  and  took 
her  hand.  He  wanted  to  make  love  to  her  again,  but  he  felt  drained,  as 
if  his  body  had  nothing  to  say  to  him  anymore.  Maybe  he’d  be  able  to 
show  her  he  loved  her  one  more  time  before  the  night  was  through.  He’d 
meant  the  last  time  to  be  so  calm  and  intense  and  here  he’d  just  jumped 
on  her  in  the  kitchen,  as  if  they  had  endless  time  ahead  of  them. 

“Come  on,”  he  had  said.  “I  want  you  to  go  to  sleep  on  me.  Can  you  do 
that?” 

“I  can  do  that.”  Head  down,  she  had  followed  him  to  the  bedroom. 

Now  Steve  sat  and  stared  out  through  the  ice  at  the  hollow  night.  The 
snow  gleamed  in  the  light  of  the  orbital  mirrors,  streaked  with  bony 
multiple  shadows.  'The  mirrors  were  part  of  an  environmental  war,  he’d 
learned.  The  Jugfur  sought  to  cool  the  Earth,  the  humans  to  warm  it. 
Orbital  battles  swarmed  around  the  mirrors. 

‘There  are  all  sorts  of  modifications,”  Dr.  Saleh  said.  Steve’s  question 
had  been  unexpected,  and  had  made  her  nervous.  “Since  you’ve  left. 
For  example,  an  internal  blood  heater  controlled  by  the  hypothalamus, 
surgically  installed  in  the  heart’s  interventricular  septum,  the  power 
socket  at  the  manubrium  of  the  sternum.”  She  prodded  sharp  fingers  at 
the  tip  of  Steve’s  sternum,  just  below  his  throat.  “Plug  in,  you  can  survive 
being  frozen  in  a block  of  ice.” 

‘Those  children — ” 

She  shook  her  head.  “Something  else.  Foamed  adipose  tissue.  Closed 
cell.  Better  than  any  insulation  in  nature.  Now  please  stop  moving 
around.”  She  vacuumed  dead  skin  from  Steve  Hardt’s  arm  with  a rubbery 
nozzle.  “Does  this  hurt?  Good,  excellent.  Radiation  didn’t  get  all  your 
basal  cells.  Easy  regrowth.” 

Steve  didn’t  look  at  her,  but  continued  staring  out  at  the  snow.  Two 
puffily  insulated  skiers  slid  through  the  trees.  Why  did  he  feel  so  empty? 
He’d  held  her  so  close  for  five  years.  Why  should  the  news  that  Karinth 
was  still  alive  make  her  evaporate  from  his  arms? 

“She’s  still  in  Chicago,”  Steve  said.  “Still  in  the  same  place.” 

“She  is.”  Saleh  had  come  to  the  farm  at  Lower  Fox  a few  days  after 
Steve’s  arrival.  Aside  from  being  a medico,  she  represented  the  Great 
Lakes  Consortium,  the  military  organization  directing  the  fight  against 
the  Stoop  in  the  middle  of  the  North  American  continent.  “Karinth  Tol- 
back  is  an  independent  operator,  contracting  to  Great  Lakes.  She  pro- 
vides a link  to  the  Jugur  eyemouths.  It’s  an  . . . ambiguous  position.” 

“Like  mine.” 

“Just  so.” 

Steve  couldn’t  remember  meeting  Karinth.  It  was  as  if  he  had  known 

34  ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


her  for  a long  time  when  he  finally  recognized  who  she  was.  They  had 
all  lived  in  multicolored  domed  tents  on  heights  near  Ararat,  the  team 
combined  to  communicate  with  the  aliens  that  had  been  dropped  across 
the  snowy  expanse  of  eastern  Anatolia.  Odd  aliens  with  vestigial  wings 
beneath  their  arms,  who  said  they  were  refugees,  fleeing  war  on  a distant 
planet.  Suddenly  knowing  Karinth  Tolback  was  just  part  of  the  discovery 
of  that  time.  It  made  galactic  conflagration  seem  a thing  of  joy,  something 
to  backlight  a love  affair. 

“So,  can  you  do  it?”  He’d  asked  Saleh  the  question  immediately  upon 
learning  that  Karinth  was  still  alive.  “The  modification?  It  is  possible. 
I’m  sure  it  is.” 

“It’s  not  a physiological  problem  with  you,”  Dr.  Saleh  said  to  him.  “I 
don’t  think  it’s  any  sort  of  problem  at  all.  I’ve  performed  all  the  tests. 
Your  sexual  responsiveness  is  completely  normal.  You  are  not  in  any  way 
dysfunctional.  A few  difficulties  from  your  isolation.  Perfectly  normal.” 

“I  don’t  need  you  to  tell  me  that.  I need  you  to  tell  me  if  you  can 
perform  the  modification.” 

Rising  up  around  the  examination  table  were  branches  suspending 
apples,  pears,  and  peaches,  though  instead  of  tree  trunks  they  had  pencil- 
thin  rods  of  tubule-filled  composite. 

Since  his  encounter  with  the  guard  on  the  snowmobile,  Steve  had  not 
wanted  to  look  at  anyone.  It  was  as  if  all  the  people  of  Lower  Fox  were 
the  same  as  the  dying  people  he  had  seen  on  the  screens  on  Jugurtha 
day  after  day,  like  figures  on  some  immense,  tragic  ceremonial  frieze. 
For  five  years,  that  was  what  human  beings  had  been  to  him.  Eyemouth 
interpretations  had  made  them  heroes,  vermin,  innocent  victims,  which- 
ever was  the  fashion  at  the  moment,  but  still,  all  they  had  been  able  to 
do  was  die  for  the  camera,  blown  apart  by  the  coolly  efficient  Jugur  that 
made  up  the  Stoop.  These  people  here  at  Lower  Fox  talked  to  him,  even 
touched  him,  but  they  didn’t  seem  at  all  real. 

“Do  you  think  it  necessary?”  Saleh’s  voice  was  clipped. 

“I  do.” 

They  needed  him.  He  could  feel  it.  He  had  fallen  from  the  sky  bearing 
a message  from  the  Juguijur  to  the  Stoop,  or  so  his  evidence  showed. 
Saleh  had  spent  the  better  part  of  a week  examining  it.  After  thirty 
years  of  war,  the  human  military  resistance  could  not  afford  to  pass  up 
any  negotiation.  Steve  Hardt  represented  a chance  for  stability. 

“I  can  do  it.  I can  give  you  that  control  over  your  sexual  drive.  If  that’s 
what  you  want.  Then — ” 

“Then  I will  come  up  to  Chicago  and  negotiate.  Great  Lakes  has  to  set 
up  a contact  with  the  Stoop,  so  that  I can  convey  the  Juguijur’s  message 
in  the  appropriate  manner.  Agreed?” 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


35 


“Agreed.”  Saleh  was  clearly  much  more  than  a mere  doctor  if  she  could 
make  that  sort  of  agreement  without  consulting  anyone  else. 

Slowly,  Steve  turned  his  head  to  look  at  her.  Dr.  Saleh  was  a wizened, 
dark-skinned  woman,  sharp  of  feature  and  sharp  of  movement.  Her  thin- 
ning hair  was  hidden  under  a turban.  When  Steve  had  left  the  Earth, 
she  had  been  a young  woman.  Now  she  was  old,  as  sharp  and  hard  as  a 
wood  letter  opener. 

“I’ll  make  the  arrangements,”  she  said.  She  was  angry.  And  why 
shouldn’t  she  be,  when  the  last,  best  hope  of  Earth  wanted  a physiological 
modification  to  turn  him  into  a voluntary  sex  maniac? 

Some  time  later,  devices  lowered  themselves  to  his  skin.  Was  that  a 
tingle,  a vibration,  or  just  an  illusion?  He  looked  out  at  the  snow  while 
Saleh  fussed  intently  over  her  gadgets.  She’d  explained  about  the  cingu- 
late gyrus,  the  hippocampus,  the  neurotransmitter  control,  the  parasym- 
pathetic nervous  system,  but  he  hadn’t  wanted  to  listen.  Lush  fruit  hung 
down  heavy  over  him  where  he  lay.  The  peaches  were  so  ripe  that  their 
sweet  juice  was  squeezing  out  of  their  flesh  and  beading  on  their  softly 
curving  surfaces. 

He  found  himself  looking  at  Saleh,  filling  his  eyes  with  her  body.  She 
was  a small  woman,  skinny  and  dark.  She  was  beautiful.  Her  small 
breasts  curved  out  against  her  businesslike  dress,  and  he  could  see  the 
tightness  of  her  bottom  as  she  turned  to  adjust  something.  He  imagined 
her  skin  sliding  against  his,  the  soft  warmth  of  it,  and  the  flicking  of  her 
sharp  tongue  down  his  stomach,  past  his  navel.  She  reached  over  him  to 
touch  some  control  and  he  grabbed  her,  pulled  her  against  him. 

Agony  flared  in  his  gut  and  he  curled  around  it.  Having  jabbed  him 
efficiently  in  the  solar  plexus  with  stiffened  fingers,  Saleh  stood  back  a 
few  feet  from  the  couch  and  watched  him  analytically.  He  sucked  in  a 
painful  breath. 

“Sorry,”  he  managed. 

“Learn  to  control  it.  Now.  Close  it  down.” 

Slowly,  his  blood  cooled.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  only  just  crawled  out  of 
his  lifepod  to  breathe  the  air.  He  blinked  at  her.  “Okay.” 

“You  leave  tomorrow  morning,”  she  said.  “A  convoy  up  the  Illinois.  I’ll 
make  the  arrangements.” 

“Fine,  fine.”  Despite  himself,  he  watched  her  leave.  Beyond  the  ice 
window,  the  gentle  snow  curved  under  the  trees  like  a woman’s  skin 
stroked  by  the  night. 

Karinth  remembered  perfectly  the  first  time  she  had  seen  Steve  Hardt. 
She  and  the  rest  of  the  team  had  been  trying  to  communicate  with  the 
Jugur  refugees  for  over  a month.  The  sun  was  creeping  over  the  hills  to 
the  east,  and  they  all  stood,  huddled  up,  watching  the  line  of  light  work 


36 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


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its  way  toward  them  across  the  grass.  The  cook  stove  was  hissing,  and 
that  morning’s  crew  was  hard  at  work  with  the  oatmeal.  The  foreign 
smell  of  maple  sugar  penetrated  the  Anatolian  highlands. 

New  team  members  had  arrived  during  the  night.  Karinth  noted  with 
annoyance  that  one  of  them  had  plopped  his  dome  tent  right  across  the 
easiest  trail  to  the  latrine.  As  she  glared  at  it,  it  shook  like  a hatching 
egg,  and  a man  crawled  out  of  it.  Something — his  sleeping  bag,  proba- 
bly— grabbed  at  his  leg.  He  shook  it  off,  then  stood  up.  He  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  wild  hair,  vainly  trying  to  smooth  it,  noticed  she  was  looking 
at  him,  and  smiled. 

She  and  Steve  first  made  love  on  a flat  rock  in  the  sun,  high  above  a 
valley.  She  had  climbed  up  there  to  sunbathe,  in  one  of  her  few  free 
hours.  He  followed  to  bring  her  the  canteen  she  had  forgotten.  She  would 
never  have  forgotten  something  as  essential  as  a canteen,  but  there  it 
had  been,  hanging  on  a broken-off  tree  branch,  and  it  had  been  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  grab  it  and  carry  it  up  to  her  so 
that  she  wouldn’t  be  thirsty  there  in  the  hot  sun. 

Steve  marked  their  moving  into  the  same  tent  together  with  a little 
ritual,  as  was  his  habit.  After  letting  her  choose  her  side  of  the  tent,  he 
sat  cross-legged  on  the  floor  and  fed  her,  like  an  Arab,  then  insisted  she 
feed  him.  She  laughed  and  got  food  all  over  his  face.  Then  he  gave  her  a 
tiny  amulet  with  a blue  eye  in  it,  something  to  ward  off  the  evil  eye.  It 
hung  up  near  her  bed  and  winked  at  her. 

She  rolled  out  of  bed,  turning  away  from  the  eye.  Steve  was  part  of 
her  past.  A big  part,  a good  part,  but  the  past,  nevertheless.  They  had 
agreed  to  understand  that.  They  had  both  agreed. 

Her  encapsulated  space  was  below  where  her  old  basement  had  been. 
Waste  heat  got  ducted  through  superconducting  heat  pipes  to  sinks 
blocks  away.  She  still  went  up  into  the  house  once  in  a while,  but  it 
wasn’t  really  safe  up  there,  even  with  the  military  protection  her  neigh- 
borhood had.  The  risk  was  less  the  Stoop  than  other  human  beings.  The 
walls  were  perforated  by  heavy-caliber  fire.  She  had  patched  and  sealed 
them,  for  neatness’  sake. 

It  made  no  sense  to  think  about  him.  It  made  sense  to  think  about 
Arnold,  if  she  was  going  to  think  about  someone.  There  was  nothing  of 
her  second  husband  in  this  apartment,  and  they’d  been  married  for  five 
years.  He’d  moved  her  away,  out  to  the  open  fields  of  Iowa  to  lead  a 
nomadic,  military  life.  Surviving  there  had  meant  shaking  down  the 
human  farmers  as  well  as  fighting  the  Stoop.  She  remembered  sitting 
behind  the  machine  gun  of  an  assault  vehicle  in  the  cooling  days  of  the 
early  fall,  watching  rye  being  pumped  out  of  a gun-turret-surrounded 
grain  silo,  while  the  farmers  stood  by,  fear  and  rage  in  their  eyes,  chil- 
dren held  up  above  their  heads  so  that  they  might  early  learn  the  injus- 
tice of  a farming  existence.  They  had  armed  and  fortified,  but  not  well 


38 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


enough.  Arnold  had  led  a clever  attack  at  a weak  point  of  their  defenses, 
scaling  a river  bluff  to  hit  them  in  the  rear,  the  sort  of  operation  that, 
under  other  circumstances,  in  other  times,  would  have  won  him  a medal. 

She  and  Arnold  had  fought  about  that,  about  the  meaning  of  being 
armored  modern-day  Mongols  looting  without  mercy,  and  about  her  re- 
fusal to  bear  another,  late,  child  for  him  via  one  of  her  own  reimplanted 
gene-scrubbed  ova.  It  had  been  a constant,  sweating  struggle,  which 
Arnold  had  regarded  as  healthy  mental  exercise. 

He’d  been  a big,  solid  man,  immovable  when  standing  still,  irresistible 
when  moving.  He’d  been  killed  in  Wisconsin,  near  the  touristic  ruins  of 
the  Dells.  Killed  by  Jugur  soldiers  of  the  Stoop,  she  was  told.  Maybe. 
She  half-suspected  that  the  bullet  lodged  in  that  wide  chest  had  come 
from  an  angry  human  farmer’s  gun.  His  role  in  her  life  had  been  bigger 
than  Steve’s  could  ever  be,  but  still  he  stood  back  there  in  her  memory, 
a solid  part  of  the  landscape,  and  never  troubled  her  sleep. 

Unlike  her  first  husband,  Daniel.  He  came  back  only  late  at  night,  in 
isolated  incidents,  desperately  forgotten  otherwise,  always  standing  over 
the  still  and  dead  figure  of  their  daughter  Selene,  which  made  no  sense, 
he’d  never  seen  Selene  dead,  never  ever  talked  to  Karinth  again  after 
that  day.  Otherwise,  she  never  thought  about  him.  Not  consciously.  An 
alarm  shivered  the  air,  indicating  an  intruder  on  the  street.  A particu- 
larly clumsy  one,  it  seemed:  she  could  detect  no  confusion  gear  in  opera- 
tion, and  you  could  have  heard  the  footsteps  without  sonic  sensors. 

Images  of  the  surrounding  streets  clicked  on.  The  snow  was  tinged 
pink  with  the  approaching  evening.  And  there,  just  turning  the  corner, 
a single  human  figure,  strolling  along  exactly  as  if  there  was  no  war, 
no  frozen  city,  no  battery  of  defensive  weapons  focused  harshly  on  his 
location. 

Steve  Hardt  pulled  back  his  hood  and  waved,  blowing  steam  out  of  his 
pursed  lips  like  cigarette  smoke. 

She  blinked,  and  the  screens  went  out  of  focus.  Damn  it.  She  rubbed 
the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  Steve  strolled  down  to  her  front 
steps  and  paused,  looking  for  a moment  at  the  sunset  at  the  end  of  her 
street. 

“Steve!”  She  scrambled  to  her  feet.  He  couldn’t  hear  her,  not  through 
meters  of  shielding  and  concrete.  And  he  was  going  right  up  to  that 
useless  front  door,  to  search  vainly  for  the  long-gone  brass  door  knocker. 
“I’m  coming,  Steve,  damn  you.” 

She  climbed  out  through  a tunnel  parallel  to  the  old  sewer  pipe,  undog- 
ged a hatch,  and  emerged  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  street.  He  still  stood 
on  the  porch,  looking  at  the  house.  It  looked  just  as  it  had  the  day  he 
left.  Pure  white,  newly  painted . . . the  front  had  been  blown  up  once. 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


39 


eind  when  she’d  replaced  the  door  she  hadn’t  been  able  to  find  a lion- 
headed brass  door  knocker. 

“Over  here,”  she  said.  Her  voice  cracked  over  the  silent  street. 

He  turned  and  stared  at  her  for  a long  moment.  “Karinth.”  Then  he 
walked  toward  her.  “How  are  you?”  His  voice  was  pitched  conversation- 
ally, as  if  the  frozen  street  was  just  a length  of  clean  white  linen  on  a 
restaurant  table. 

He  hadn’t  changed:  thinning  sandy  hair,  pale  blue  eyes,  big  ears,  long 
chin.  He  looked  impossibly  young,  as  if  he  was  her  own  child. 

“Oh,  damn  you,  Steve,”  she  said  through  tears.  “Damn  you.  You  prom- 
ised you  wouldn’t  try  to  come  back.” 

“I  lied,”  he  said. 

She  had  to  have  moved  things  out  of  place  before  he  came,  so  she  would 
have  something  to  do.  She  couldn’t  possibly  have  had  to  go  through  this 
much  work  every  time  she  made  a pot  of  tea. 

Steve  watched  the  powerful,  gray-brush-haired  woman  bustle  around 
the  kitchen.  She  had  trouble  looking  at  him,  and  snuck  glances  out  of 
the  comers  of  her  eyes.  He  pretended  not  to  notice.  He  affected  interest 
in  a design  of  tiles  on  the  wall. 

“Why  are  you  looking  at  me?”  she  said,  standing  with  her  back  to  him. 

“Because  I haven’t  seen  you  in  so  long,”  he  said. 

“And  what  do  you  see?”  She  was  challenging. 

He  shrugged.  ‘What  should  I see?  I see  Karinth  Tolback.” 

“The  name’s  Karinth  Carlson,”  she  said  harshly.  ‘That  was  Arnold’s 
last  name.  Arnold  was  my  second  husband.  He  died  eight  years  ago.  I 
kept  it.  It’s  about  all  I have  of  him.” 

“Okay.  Carlson.  But  I see  you,  Karinth.  You  want  me  to  say  you 
haven’t  changed  a bit?  I won’t.” 

She  managed  a laugh,  and  shook  her  head,  looking  down  at  the  tea 
pot.  “You  haven’t  changed  much.  Not  at  all.” 

Her  shoulders  were  wide,  her  back  strong.  She’d  lost  a lot  of  her  wom- 
anly shape,  and  looked  aggressively  competent,  as  if  she  had  concen- 
trated on  that  personality  feature  in  preference  to  the  others.  She  wore 
a utilitarian  coverall.  Her  face  was  creased  and  lined.  She  put  the  tea 
on  a tray  and  carried  it  into  the  living  room.  He  followed,  then  stood 
there  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  on  the  couch. 

He’d  been  whirled  through  the  infinite  spaces  and  was  dizzy,  standing 
on  the  same  rug  he’d  started  on,  as  if  the  world  had  just  tilted  for  an 
instant  and  come  back  completely  changed. 

“I  was  the  only  human  being  on  Jugurtha,”  he  said.  “They  watched 
me.  Every  minute  of  every  day,  they  watched  me.  I represented  the  entire 
race  to  them.  . . . Adalti  knew  I would.” 


40 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


“That  was  your  job,”  she  said  distantly.  “You  knew  what  you  were 
going  up  against.  You  knew.  . . .” 

“We  both  knew.  Karinth.  Kari,  love,  I came  back  a long  way  to  find 
you.” 

Tears  suddenly  flowed  down  her  gullied  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were  still 
dark  brown,  but  looked  completely  different.  Not  just  because  her  face 
was  different,  fallen  down  on  the  bones,  but  because  she’d  had  her  lenses 
and  corneas  replaced  as  they  aged.  The  new,  more  efficient  focusing 
arrangement  worked  like  a bellows  camera,  and  her  eyes  bulged  out  at 
him  as  he  moved  closer,  efficiently,  if  disquietingly,  changing  the  focal 
length. 

“I  haven’t  cried  since  ...  I didn’t  cry  when  Arnold  died.  ...  I didn’t 
even  cry  when  Daniel  left.  ...  I don’t  remember.  ...  I don’t  know  ...” 

He  didn’t  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  didn’t  want  that,  not  yet.  Just 
crying  in  front  of  him  was  enough  of  a sign  to  him.  She’d  never  liked  to 
do  that. 

“I  remember.  The  last  time  I cried  was  when  Selene  died.  She  was  my 
daughter.  My  only  child.  If  she’d  lived  she  would  only  be  a few  years 
younger  than  you.” 

Steve  didn’t  say  anything.  He  just  provided  her  with  a calm  silence. 

“It  was  stupid.  My  stupidity,  not  hers,  not  anyone  else’s.  Not  Adalti’s, 
though  later  I tried  to  think  so.  Mine.  She  was  helping  me.  She  was  only 
fifteen ...  I remember  myself  at  fifteen,  nothing  like  her  . . . fifteen  is 
old  now.  You’ve  lived  a long  time  at  that  age.  But  she  hadn’t  lived  at  all. 
And  now  she  won’t.  We  ...  I was  helping  Adalti.  He  had  evidence  that 
a local  Stoop  commander  had  ordered  a massacre  of  human  prisoners  in 
the  Indiana  dunes,  near  the  ruins  of  a Gary  steel  mill.  He  wanted  to 
cover  it.  Find  the  bodies.  Display  the  Stoop  to  Jugurtha  in  a way  the 
Stoop  didn’t  want  to  be  seen.” 

“How  had  he  found  that  out?” 

She  didn’t  hesitate.  “From  me.  I got  it  from  Great  Lakes  intelligence. 
They  didn’t  know  what  to  do  with  it:  propaganda?  How  are  you  going  to 
make  people  fight  any  harder?  Atrocity  news  is  low  value,  less  important 
than  an  accurate  weather  report.  We’re  fighting  for  survival.  But  on 
Jugurtha  it’s  a different  matter.  So  I slid  it  to  Adalti.” 

Adalti  had  been  with  those  refugees  in  Anatolia,  managing  and  re- 
cording the  first  contact  between  Jugur  and  human  beings.  It  was  only 
gradually,  over  long  thought  and  investigation,  that  Steve  had  realized 
that  the  crashlanded  Jugur  were  not  refugees  from  some  galactic  conflict. 
That  was  just  a cover  story.  They  were  all  eyemouths,  a boatload  of 
media  Jugur,  making  contacts  and  getting  used  to  the  place.  An  odd  way 
to  make  interspecies  contact,  Steve  had  thought,  until  the  Stoop-directed 
comet  hit  and  he  realized  they  were  here  to  cover  the  big  story:  the 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


41 


invasion  of  Earth  by  the  Stoop.  Slowly,  as  the  humans  had  talked  to  the 
Jugur,  Adalti  had  co-opted  Steve  and  Karinth,  and  they  had  been  string- 
ers of  his  ever  since.  Some  called  that  treason. 

“And  it  was  a trap,”  Steve  said. 

She  sighed.  “The  Stoop  had  gotten  wind  of  it.  How  did  you  know?” 

Steve  remembered  the  flurry  it  had  caused  on  Jugurtha.  In  juxtaposi- 
tion, it  had  made  his  image  stronger.  “It  was  on  the  news.”  A lot  of 
nice  visuals:  exploding  steel-mill  buildings,  vehicles  plowing  through 
collapsing  walls,  flames  so  hot  that  metal  melted.  It  had  been  intercut 
with  some  ancient  human  newsreel  footage  of  a steel  mill,  with  pouring 
molten  steel  and  huge  glowing  cauldrons,  an  indication  of  Adalti’s  fine 
hand.  Steve  had  watched  the  images  over  and  over,  catching  glimpses  of 
Karinth’s  silhouette  and  her  distinctive  way  of  moving.  The  reports  had 
not  mentioned  a daughter. 

“Of  course  it  was  on  the  news.  That  was  the  whole  point,  wasn’t  it? 
The  Stoop  hit  us  there,  a hard  attack,  they  usually  couldn’t  spare  that 
much  ordnance.  Three  of  Adalti’s  eyemouths  were  killed.  My  daughter 
drove  an  APC  right  into  a Stoop  assault  squad  . . . the  rest  of  us  managed 
to  escape.  My  husband  Daniel  blamed  me,  divorced  me  ...  I never  saw 
him  again.  He  was  right  to  do  it.” 

Daniel  had  no  doubt  known  what  Steve  knew  now.  Karinth  had  risked 
herself  and  her  daughter  in  a high-stakes  gamble  to  further  influence 
Jugur  public  opinion  via  the  eyemouths.  Actual  military  operations 
against  the  Stoop  were  of  only  secondary  importance.  The  flaming  images 
had  been  common  currency  on  Jugur  for  weeks,  the  first  significant  sign 
of  notice  of  that  war  on  a distant  planet. 

She’d  been  responsible  for  the  way  it  came  out.  She’d  known  the  Stoop 
would  catch  wind  of  the  eyemouth  expedition  to  dig  up  their  dirt.  Perhaps 
she  had  even  made  sure  they  caught  wind  of  it,  taking  the  risk  she  would 
be  killed  when  the  attack  came.  Selene  had  died  instead. 

Then,  months  later,  Adalti  had  come  back  again,  to  dig  up  the  bodies 
from  the  forgotten  massacre  and  the  bodies  from  the  recent  battle,  and 
to  display  them  side  by  side,  burnt  and  shattered  human  skulls  next  to 
lumps  of  long-forgotten  slag.  Had  Karinth  looked  there  for  her  daughter’s 
remains?  Had  her  husband? 

“She  was  your  daughter,”  Steve  said.  “No  doubt  about  that.” 

“Yes,  she  was.” 

The  silence  stretched.  He  had  run  through  the  snow  to  try  to  throw 
his  arms  around  an  anonymous  armed  woman  on  a snowmobile.  But  he 
had  barely  touched  Karinth.  Their  hug  had  been  perfunctory.  All  the 
way  back  from  Jugurtha,  he  had  thought  about  little  else  but  whether 
he  would  see  her  again.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  shared  that 
trip  home  with  him,  but  now,  looking  at  her,  he  knew  that  her  life  had 


42 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


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been  something  completely  different.  It  was  an  icy,  incomprehensible 
world,  full  of  children  that  looked  like  seals,  doctors  that  represented 
war-fighting  corporations,  lovers  that  turned  in  an  eye-blink  from  equals 
to  grim  figures  of  authority  whose  histories  made  mock  of  your  expe- 
rience. 

“Please,  Karinth,”  he  whispered.  “Don’t  be  angry  at  me  for  coming 
back.  I need  you.” 

“It’s  all  right.” 

When  Steve  Hardt  had  left  the  Earth,  he  and  Karinth  had  released 
each  other  from  every  oath  and  every  promise.  It  didn’t  make  sense,  they 
told  each  other.  Light  speed  will  pull  on  every  cord  until  it  is  broken. 
Better  to  cut  voluntarily  than  feel  each  one  ripped  from  the  flesh  and 
soul.  He  had  made  a little  ceremony  of  it,  as  he  liked  to  do,  a parting  of 
string  in  a candle  flame.  He  remembered  it,  a tug  and  then  two  loose 
pieces,  one  in  each  of  their  hands,  connected  to  nothing.  String  after 
string,  then  a lot  of  alcohol,  and  then  soon  it  was  dawn  and  he  had  to  go. 
He’d  even  thrown  up,  for  the  first  time  since  college.  So  she  had  married, 
twice,  and  had  a child.  It  was  only  natural  that  she  should  have,  though 
he  could  not  restrain  a flash  of  equally  natural  jealousy.  Those  men  had 
lived  the  life  with  her  that  he  should  have. 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  huddled  on  the  couch,  and  thought:  I hid 
one  of  those  strings  in  my  pocket.  Saved  it  from  the  flame.  He  still  had 
it,  he’d  taken  it  to  Jugurtha  and  back  and  held  it  in  his  hand  as  he 
reentered  the  Earth’s  atmosphere. 

He  knew  she  still  had  one  too. 

A trumpeting  sound.  Steve  turned  slowly  and  she  watched  him,  wait- 
ing for  his  reaction. 

“My  God!” 

For  the  first  time  in  three  days,  since  he  had  shown  up  on  her  doorstep, 
she  laughed.  The  midget  mastodon  trotted  out  of  the  trees  of  Grant  Park 
and  extended  its  snout  to  Steve,  hoping  for  some  food.  He  jumped  back 
and  it  looked  hurt,  not  used  to  anything  but  full  approval.  It  was  six  feet 
at  the  shoulder  and  covered  with  long  reddish  hair. 

“We  modified  some  ova  from  elephants  at  the  Brookfield  Zoo,”  she  said. 
“Implemted  genes  from  desiccated  Wrangel  Island  dwarf  mastodons.” 

“What . . . why?” 

She  shrugged.  “What  could  we  do?  The  elephants  are  dead  now,  all  the 
tropical  animals.  We  let  the  musk  oxen,  the  bactrian  camels,  that  stuff 
go.  TTiey  live  out  there  in  the  open  lands  somewhere,  I think.  I hope.  I 
look  for  them  when  I’m  out  there.  But  we  adapted  the  elephants  as  we 
adapted  ourselves.” 

He  looked  up  at  the  tall,  silent  city  around  them.  The  city  park  opened 

44  ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


out  on  the  cracked  and  fissured  ice  of  the  lake,  huge  chunks  thrust  up, 
blue  in  the  morning  light.  He  was  slender  in  his  bulky,  unflattering  coat, 
and  his  brown  hair  was  crisply  brushed.  He  moved  with  a bouncing 
grace. 

He  turned  quickly  to  her,  as  if  hoping  to  catch  her  off  guard.  “Have 
you  adapted  to  the  Jugur?”  he  asked. 

“You  don’t  know  the  first  thing  about  it,”  she  said  angrily.  “We’ve  been 
at  war  so  long  I’ve  almost  forgotten  anything  else.  But  we  won’t  stop. 
Not  for  anything.” 

“Good,  good.”  Suddenly  he  seemed  distracted.  Her  anger  didn’t  affect 
him.  “Now,  this  meeting  with  the  Great  Lakes  board  ...  it  still  sounds 
weird  to  me,  you  know?  That  an  army  has  a board  of  directors,  stock 
holders.  But  what  do  I know?  What  will  they  think  of  me?” 

“It’s  what  they  will  make  of  you  that’s  important,”  Karinth  said.  “A 
hero.” 

“The  Stoop  won’t  negotiate  with  anyone  else.” 

“That’s  right.  So  if  they’re  going  to  listen  to  a message  from  the  Ju- 
guijur,  it  will  have  to  come  from  someone  who’s  proved  that  he  can  fight 
them  on  their  own  terms.” 

“Right,  right.”  He  gazed  off  distractedly. 

So  that  was  why  he  was  nervous.  He  wasn’t  afraid  of  meeting  the 
Board  of  Directors  of  the  Great  Lakes  Consortium.  He  was  afraid  of  what 
they  would  have  to  do  to  make  him  a hero  worthy  of  negotiating  with 
the  Stoop.  Even  a fake  hero  gets  put  in  danger. 

Adalti  had  once  explained  it  to  her.  Most  Jugur  saw  themselves  in  the 
Stoop.  The  Stoop  represented  the  basic  virtues  of  the  Jugur  as  a species. 
They  were  blithe,  interested  in  dramatic  virtue,  completely  unconcerned 
with  other  sentient  species  save  as  dramatic  backdrops  to  their  own 
actions.  Clan  allegiance  had  always  been  much  stronger  among  Jugur 
than  territoriality,  and  the  Stoop  represented  an  overarching,  almost 
philosophically  defined  clan.  Most  Jugur  and  Jugurtha  had  evolved  men- 
tally beyond  the  simple  allegiances  represented  by  the  Stoop,  but  they 
still  valued  them,  particularly  as  the  Stoop  was  played  to  them  by  the 
eyemouths. 

The  Stoop  had  its  own  vision  of  itself,  also  played  to  it  by  the  eye- 
mouths.  They  valued  heroism  and  constant  war.  Steve  had  to  appear  as 
a representative  of  those  values  before  they  would  consent  to  hear  him 
speak,  no  matter  how  important  his  message. 

“Don’t  worry,”  she  said.  “Adalti  will  handle  it.” 

“Adalti.  You’ve  known  him  for  thirty  years  now.  Do  you  understand 
him  yet?” 

“He’s  a genius,  Steve.  How  can  I understand  him?” 

Adalti  was  a brilliant  eyemouth:  a Michelangelo,  a Rembrandt  of  the 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


45 


form.  He  was  abnormal,  like  all  geniuses.  He  was  genuinely  interested 
in  alien  races,  human  beings  in  particular.  His  version  of  the  Stoop’s 
invasion  of  the  Earth  was  his  great  masterwork.  Other  eyemouths  did 
his  bidding,  sometimes  not  realizing  it.  The  eyemouths  who  had  made 
Steve  Hardt  famous  on  Jugurtha  had  been  in  the  position  of  medieval 
stonecutters  assisting  in  the  making  of  a cathedral  whose  final  structure 
they  had  no  way  of  imagining. 

Karinth  thought  of  the  immense  arc  of  Steve’s  journey  to  Jugurtha 
and  back,  the  passing  close  to  the  speed  of  light  and  the  quick  transition 
beyond  it  that  sucked  up  most  of  the  distance.  Holding  it  together  was 
the  taut  line  of  his  life,  with  her  own  high  parabola  superimposed  on  it, 
intersecting  at  two  points.  The  whole  thing  made  some  sort  of  sense  to 
Adalti  that  it  didn’t  yet  to  her. 

Steve  Hardt  was  a child,  she  told  herself,  a callow  young  man  who’d 
spent  a good  portion  of  his  life  cramped  in  a tuna  can  stuck  to  the  side 
of  a Stoop  warship.  Who  was  he  to  her?  Did  she  really  remember  loving 
him?  She  wasn’t  sure. 

Still,  there  was  something  in  him  that  spoke  to  her,  even  after  the 
distance  of  time  that  had  stretched  between  them.  She  liked  the  way  he 
moved,  the  way  he  held  things  in  his  hands.  She  liked  the  way  he  listened 
when  she  had  something  to  say.  She  liked  the  way  he  looked  at  her, 
really  looked  at  her,  as  if  it  didn’t  matter  that  she  was  thirty  years  older 
than  he’d  seen  her  last.  She  could  feel  that  liking  within  her  and  she 
didn’t  like  it.  The  time  for  that  was  long  past.  The  sooner  Steve  Hardt 
made  his  arrangements  with  Great  Lakes  and  went  off  on  his  mission, 
the  better. 

“Come  on,  Steve,”  she  said.  “They’re  waiting.” 

“Okay.”  He  took  her  arm  and  they  walked  together  down  the  path. 
“I’ll  tell  you  how  it  goes.” 

She  couldn’t  think  of  any  polite  way  of  getting  him  to  let  go  of  her 
arm,  so  she  let  him  hold  it.  It  felt  all  right.  She  thought  she  could  put 
up  with  it. 

“They  have  the  military  plans  all  ready,”  Steve  said,  shaking  his  head. 
“They  know  what  to  do.” 

It  had  been  a rough  meeting,  and  Steve  had  left  soaked  in  sweat.  But 
they  had  finally  agreed.  The  Great  Lakes  Consortium  would  make  Steve 
Hardt  a hero.  They  had  heen  resentful,  and  there  had  been  opposition, 
but,  finally,  there  had  been  no  choice. 

“Of  course  they  do,”  Karinth  said.  “They’ve  been  at  this  a long  time.” 

Her  voice  was  sharp,  irritated.  Without  thinking  about  it,  he  sat  down 
on  the  couch  next  to  her.  She  jerked  as  he  sank  down  into  the  cushions. 

“Karinth,”  he  said.  “Why—?” 


46 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


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“Do  we  really  need  to  talk  about  it?  Do  we  need  the  whole  analysis?” 

“No,  we  don’t.  I love  you,  Karinth.” 

“No,  you  don’t.  You  sat  there  in  your  little  capsule  and  thought  about 
me  and  thought  about  me  and  now  that  you  see  me  you’re  still  thinking 
about  me.  We’re  not  who  we  were,  Steve.” 

“No.”  He  pursed  his  lips,  amused.  “We  never  were,  though.” 

“Oh!” 

She  was  right,  and  she  was  wrong.  She  wasn’t  the  tender  young  woman 
he’d  loved,  but  she  wasn’t  someone  else  either,  regardless  of  how  many 
husbands  or  children  she’d  had.  He  was  going  out  into  Wisconsin  in  a 
few  days,  to  let  the  Stoop  launch  an  attack  on  him  so  that  he  could  appear 
to  be  a hero,  and  have  the  honor  of  negotiating  with  them. 

He  was  never  going  to  negotiate  with  them.  The  Juguijur  had  nothing 
worthwhile  to  offer,  and  the  Stoop  would  not  listen.  He  wondered  if 
Karinth  imderstood  his  real  plan.  She’d  talked  with  Adalti  for  thirty 
yeeu's.  She  had  to. 

He  slid  down  the  couch  toward  her  like  a teenager  attempting  his  first 
seduction.  His  body  was  a heavy  sack  full  of  reality.  If  he  truly  loved 
her,  after  all  these  years,  after  all  that  had  happened,  he  should  feel  the 
urge  to  make  love  to  her.  A woman,  no  matter  what  age,  had  a right  to 
that  from  the  man  who  loved  her.  And  he  knew  she  felt  the  absence  of 
that  urge  in  him.  There  was  a look  in  the  eye,  a tingly  warmth  to  the 
tips  of  the  fingers,  a tautness  in  the  skin,  that  should  have  been  there 
and  it  was  all  missing,  as  if  it  had  been  pounded  out  somewhere  between 
the  stars.  Even  if  she  rejected  him  and  pushed  him  away,  she  should  be 
able  to  feel  that  heat  coming  from  him  again.  He  wanted  to  do  that  for 
her. 

He  put  his  arms  around  Karinth’s  waist  and  she  finally  let  her  weight 
relax  against  him. 

“Touch  my  lips,”  he  said.  “With  your  fingertips.” 

She  hesitated  a moment,  then  did  as  he  asked.  With  his  eyes  closed, 
the  years  fell  away.  They  lay  in  their  tent,  tired  from  the  day,  their 
minds  buzzing  with  insane  new  information,  and,  and  she  rolled  over 
and  stroked  him  slowly,  as  light  as  a butterfly’s  wing,  shooting  energy 
over  his  skin. 

He  felt  the  shift,  the  flow  inside.  Dr.  Saleh  had  conditioned  and  trained 
him.  It  felt  real,  by  God.  And  the  fact  that  it  came  right  when  he  needed 
it  didn’t  mean  that  it  wasn’t  real,  not  at  all. 

He  kissed  Karinth.  Her  lips  were  ridged,  rougher  than  they  had  been, 
but  it  didn’t  matter.  Nothing  mattered.  He  felt  the  fire  inside  as  he  hadn’t 
felt  it  in  years.  As  he  hadn’t  felt  it  since  he  left  her. 

“Please,”  Karinth  said.  “The  lights.” 

He  jumped  and  turned  them  off.  It  was  best  that  way.  He  stood  there 

48  ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


for  a moment,  hearing  her  breathe  in  the  darkness,  then  returned  and 
felt  her  fumbling  hands  slide  their  way  down  his  sides. 

“Okay,  Steve,”  Karinth  whispered  into  the  radio.  “The  Stoop  unit’s 
just  over  the  ridge.”  She  looked  up  at  the  crumbling  ceiling  of  the  subur- 
ban house  she  sat  in,  imagining  him  out  in  the  snow,  lying  still,  waiting 
for  the  first  signs  of  sunlight. 

“I  see  deer  tracks,”  Steve  said. 

“How  fresh?”  She  leaned  forward.  One  of  the  many  screens  was  verti- 
cally striped  by  tree  trunks. 

“Don’t  know.  I’m  lucky  I know  they’re  deer.”  A pause.  “Do  deer  live  in 
Wisconsin?  Maybe  it’s  from  a dog.” 

She  laughed,  hard.  It  hurt.  “Oh,  Steve.  Don’t  get  killed.  We  need  a live 
hero.” 

“Sure.  Tell  Adalti  I’ll  do  my  best.” 

Karinth  turned  to  Adalti,  who  squatted  next  to  the  rotted  couch.  One 
of  his  eyes  stared  blankly,  its  nerves  recruited  to  process  direct  electronic 
image  information  from  his  cameras.  Jugur  seldom  massed  more  than 
fifty  kilos,  and  Adalti  was  on  the  small  side.  He  suddenly  seemed  tiny  to 
her,  with  his  fine  arms  and  legs,  his  sharply  pointed  face,  and  the  fuzzy 
membranes  that  were  all  that  was  left  of  ancestral  glide  wings,  stretch- 
ing from  his  elbow  joints  down  to  his  wide,  articulated  hips.  Jugur  were 
like  highly  evolved  flying  squirrels,  not  at  all  the  sort  of  being  to  be 
fighting  heavy,  solid  human  beings  on  more  than  equal  terms. 

“Some  of  the  angles  are  difficult,”  Adalti  said  in  his  whispering  voice. 
“The  main  attack  will  be  coming  out  of  the  rising  sun.  I will  have  to 
process  the  image.” 

“You  always  process  the  image,  Adalti.” 

“Still,  each  must  have  the  taste  of  reality.  Otherwise  the  mind  spits  it 
out.  And  the  young  trees  on  that  side  . . . they  fragment  the  view.” 

“Part  of  the  idea.  Makes  the  attack  safer.” 

Adalti  extended  his  wing  membranes  in  irritation.  “Winning  the  battle 
is  not  the  point,  Karinth.  A few  more  casualties — reasonable  cost  for  a 
good  shot.  You  know  this.  What  are  you  after?” 

The  destruction  of  your  entire  species,  Karinth  thought.  Instead,  she 
smiled.  Adalti  knew  that  she  hated  him  because  he  was  a Jugur,  despite 
all  he  had  done.  It  didn’t  seem  to  bother  him.  If  anything,  it  made  her 
more  interesting. 

“Steve  Hardt  has  to  survive.  Without  that,  all  the  good  shots  in  the 
world  don’t  mean  anything.” 

“He  will  survive,”  Adalti  said.  “He  will  survive  forever.  Up  there.”  He 
pointed  to  the  line  of  screens.  “His  story  will  be  watched  on  Jugurtha 
centuries  from  now.  Your  story.” 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


49 


She  barely  listened  to  his  grandiose  pronouncements.  She  was  remem- 
bering the  previous  night,  when  Steve  made  love  to  her.  She’d  seen  the 
heat  flare  up  in  his  eyes.  And  suddenly  . . . she’d  loved  both  her  husbands, 
and  other  men  as  well.  She’d  made  love  in  calm  safe  times  and  in  the 
face  of  imminent  death.  She’d  borne  a child,  and  seen  her  die.  But  still, 
the  night  before  Steve  left  the  Earth  and  the  night  just  past  formed  the 
lips  of  a cup  that  held  the  last  thirty  years  in  it.  If  he  had  not  come  back, 
none  of  it  would  have  made  any  sense.  It  would  simply  have  happened. 

“We’re  going  up,  hon.”  She  could  hear  the  quaver  of  fear  in  his  voice. 
Charging  up  a snow-covered  hill  at  a Jugur  military  unit  had  not  been 
in  his  job  description.  “Talk  to  you  later.” 

The  end  of  his  voice  and  the  start  of  distant  gunfire  came  at  once.  What 
was  left  of  the  house’s  window  glass  shook  and  rattled.  The  Jugur  unit 
had  been  entrenched  in  what  had  once  been  this  small  Wisconsin  town’s 
riverfront  park,  which  covered  the  steep  slope  down  to  the  river. 

The  line  of  screens  dangling  from  the  edge  of  the  ceiling  flared  with 
combat.  Supersonic  bouncing-betty  shrapnel  shredded  the  bases  of  the 
second-growth  trees  and  they  toppled  in  all  directions,  forming  an  impas- 
sible tangle.  Three  dull  thunks  and  the  thick-frozen  river  cracked  open. 
Armored  vehicles  pushed  through  the  ice  from  their  concealment  on  the 
river  bed  and  opened  fire. 

“ . . . keep  two  meters  below  the  ridge  line,  Parker  . . . that’s  a reactive 
glacis  . . . hit  the  rock  next  to  it,  change  the  angle  . . . good,  Sugura  ...” 
Steve’s  voice  cracked  through  the  speakers,  giving  calm  commands.  It 
wasn’t  his  voice,  of  course,  just  a simulation  of  it  coming  from  a tactical 
computer,  but  Karinth  found  herself  listening  to  it  anyway,  hoping  to 
hear  what  he  was  feeling. 

It  had  taken  a while  to  find  a Stoop  unit  that  had  strayed  far  enough 
out  of  the  defensive  line  through  central  Wisconsin.  There  had  been  little 
action  in  this  sector  in  recent  months,  and  the  Stoop  had  gotten  a little 
lax.  An  overwhelming  force  had  been  mounted  against  them.  It  made  no 
military  sense:  this  unit  would  be  destroyed,  but  then  the  humans  would 
be  exposed  to  a much  larger  Stoop  counter-attack.  By  then,  they  hoped, 
the  emotional  effect  of  this  encounter  would  be  felt,  making  the  inevita- 
ble later  military  defeat  irrelevant. 

Adalti  wove  the  various  image  strands  into  a narrative.  Karinth 
caught  hints  of  it  as  she  watched.  The  Stoop  weaponry  had  mostly  been 
destroyed,  leaving  only  the  appearance  of  function.  That  remotely  piloted 
weapon,  for  example,  cranked  fast  on  its  treads,  but  by  now  its  gun  was 
useless. 

He  looked  good,  Karinth  thought,  her  fingers  shaking.  Steve  dodged 
and  weaved  over  the  toppled  trunks,  dropping,  then  emerging  again.  He 
was  a little  unsteady  on  his  feet,  but  the  slips  were  edited  out  almost  as 


50 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


ANALOG  SCIENCym  6 FACT  exfP^Ksight  into 
the  infinite  worll  of'Wnce.  Gain  enKeW^ghdqe  and 
pleasure  through  the  viewpoints  of  the  mosffispected 
authors  in  the  science  field.  You'll  find  there  are  no  limits 


to  where  your  scientific  imagination  will  take  you.! 


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they  occurred.  He  rolled  through  flaming  brush  and  down  into  a ravine 
on  the  other  side. 

The  sun  was  full  up  now,  and  the  boiling  smoke  looked  heavy  in  its 
light.  Flying  remotes  circled  the  battle.  She’d  been  through  flghts  like 
that  herself,  but  now  she  found  it  hard  to  breathe.  She  had  nothing  to 
do  but  sit  and  watch  and  feel  afraid. 

“Damn,  damn."  Steve’s  real  live  voice  crackled  in  her  ears.  It  was 
punctuated  by  the  blast  of  shell  fire.  “Take  you  down."  A screen  showed 
the  RPW  she  had  seen  before,  now  firing,  not  out  of  commission  in  the 
slightest.  Its  turret  whirled,  tracking. 

She  could  see  the  other  channels,  as  soldiers  reacted  to  the  possible 
loss  of  their  imagistic  hero.  These  would  not  be  seen  in  Adalti’s  version. 
“Get  in  there!  We’re  going  to  lose  him!  The  stupid  son  of  a bitch.  ...” 

“Steve!”  Karinth  called. 

There  was  nothing  but  the  sound  of  his  ragged  breath.  Then:  “come 
here,  baby.  Come  to  momma.” 

The  RPW  ground  forward.  Its  armor  gleamed  like  that  of  a knight  in 
a young  girl’s  fantasy.  Had  bored  Stoop  soldiers  spent  their  time  pol- 
ishing it,  or  had  Adalti  removed  the  grime  through  some  digital  filter? 
A blast,  and  the  earth  and  logs  beneath  its  treads  gave  way. 

Steve  screamed. 

Karinth  ran  through  the  blown-out  front  door  of  the  house  into  the 
street.  Smoke  rose  up  through  the  trees  and  she  could  see  the  silver 
specks  of  helicopters  and  flying  cameras. 

“It’s  not  out  there,”  Adalti  said  lazily.  “It’s  in  here.” 

Karinth  stood  in  the  cold  sun,  breathing  as  slowly  and  silently  as  she 
could.  Time  had  gritted  her  joints.  Her  inner  thighs  still  hurt  from  Steve’s 
desperate  lovemaking.  She  held  herself,  remembering  his  arms. 

“Interesting,”  Adalti  said.  “Come  and  see,  Karinth.” 

She  stood  in  the  doorway.  Steve  was  pinned  beneath  a fall  of  logs. 
Helmeted  soldiers  sawed  and  pried  desperately.  The  bent  ruin  of  the 
RPW  lay  tilted  nearby,  its  weight  keeping  the  logs  pressed  down  on 
Steve. 

“He  led  it  off  the  solid  ground,  then  blew  up  a log  supporting  it.”  Adalti 
monitored  peripheral  areas  of  the  battle.  Most  of  the  Stoop  were  now 
dead.  “It  dropped.” 

“Alive?”  She  held  her  breath.  Steve’s  face  was  pale  on  the  screen. 

“Alive.”  Adalti  sounded  amused.  “The  soldiers  are  annoyed.  We  don’t 
need  a real  dead  hero.” 

“Just  a synthetic  live  one.  I know.  I hope  they’ll  forgive  him.” 

“It  doesn’t  matter.  We  have  what  we  need.  And  now  they  need  to  move 
quickly.” 

Battle  would  cover  this  entire  sector  by  nightfall,  as  the  Stoop  reacted 

52  ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


to  the  attack.  Steve,  Karinth,  and  Adalti  would  be  long  gone  by  then,  of 
course,  but  the  soldiers  would  stay. 

And  all  she  could  think  about  was  last  night.  Every  move,  every 
breath.  Where  had  it  come  from,  that  passion  she  had  seen  suddenly 
arise  in  his  gaze?  He  had  gotten  it  from  somewhere,  she  was  suddenly 
sure.  Created  it.  She  blinked  in  the  cold  wind.  If  only  she  could  be  young 
and  desirable  for  just  one  day,  and  they  could  make  love  in  the  warm 
sunlight  on  top  of  a flat  rock,  far  above  everything  else,  and  tell  the 
world  to  go  to  hell. 

She  stepped  back  in  the  house.  Steve’s  noble  face  stared  out  at  her 
from  the  screens.  He  commanded  the  attack  and  bravely  led  it  up  the 
steep  slope  into  the  teeth  of  the  Stoop  guns.  It  was  the  modem  Jugur 
equivalent  of  an  epic  poem,  a visual  Iliad,  the  story  of  a hero.  A smart 
species,  the  Jugur  had  adapted  to  their  changing  technologies,  but  used 
them  to  support  their  own  image  of  themselves,  the  image  that  said  they 
would  negotiate  equally  only  with  a hero. 

Somewhere  under  that  glossy  surface  was  a genuinely  brave  man,  she 
knew.  Defeat  after  defeat,  and  still  he  had  dragged  himself  back  to  Earth 
for  the  final  effort.  He  was  convinced  it  would  finally  kill  him.  And  it 
would  kill  him.  It  had  to.  There  was  no  other  sensible  end  to  it  all. 

Did  that  mean  that  there  was  someone  who  loved  her,  somewhere 
underneath  the  nerve  manipulation  that  had  made  him  her  lover  the 
previous  night?  Perhaps  that  image  concealed  a reality  too,  and  human 
beings  used  technology  to  support  their  image  of  themselves  as  well. 

She  sat  and  watched  Adalti  manipulate  Steve’s  flaring  figure  on  the 
screens,  for  transmission  to  the  Stoop  and  Jugurtha  itself,  and  felt  hol- 
lower  than  the  loss  of  either  husband  had  left  her. 

The  records  and  images  would  show  that  Steve  had  planned  it  this 
way  from  the  beginning.  He  had  no  doubt  of  that.  It  had  a satisfying 
narrative  symmetry  and  would  be  accepted.  That  it  was  really  the  last 
desperate  act  after  a string  of  failures  would  be  ignored. 

He  stepped  out  between  two  lines  of  upraised  batons  held  in  the  hands 
of  Stoop  commanders.  Steve  did  not  look  at  their  expressionless  long- 
nosed  faces,  their  tiny  sunk-back  mouths  gritted  in  concentration,  saving 
his  attention  for  the  rough  broken  pavement  on  which  he  painfully 
walked.  His  shattered  hip  was  barely  healed,  and  was  held  together  by 
fine  metal  wires. 

A fire  glowed  in  the  lake  beyond  the  sand-drowned  concrete  ruins  of 
Gary,  lighting  the  underside  of  the  clouds.  The  Stoop  had  lit  an  ion-tinted 
fusion  flame  somewhere  out  there,  visible  from  Wisconsin  to  Michigan. 
Important  acts  were  always  consummated  at  the  crossing  of  the  termina- 
tor, they  told  him,  and  the  flame  gave  the  all-night  negotiations  the  look 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


53 


of  perpetual  sunset.  A pointless  gesture,  Adalti  thought — adding  sunset 
light  to  the  images  sent  to  Jugurtha  was  a simple  procedure — but  the 
Stoop  now  affected  to  be  traditionalists,  though  not  so  traditional  that 
they  would  actually  wait  for  the  sun. 

It  was  almost  dawn,  the  real  terminator  now  approaching.  A beam  of 
flickering  red  light  picked  Steve  out,  cast  by  a parabolic  mirror  on  top  of 
a cnunbling  old  brick  chimney.  He  blinked  in  the  sudden  molten  light. 
Humans  now  stood  to  either  side,  trying  to  look  dignified,  respectful, 
exactly  as  if  they  weren’t  confronting  the  creation  of  a lunatic  alien  PR 
wizard,  exactly  as  if  he  was  actually  a hero. 

Steve  had  gone  all  the  way  to  Jugurtha  to  persuade  the  Juguijur  to 
pull  the  Stoop  back  from  Earth.  It  had  taken  him  three  years  to  realize 
that  the  Juguijur,  a ceremonial  social  club  a thousand  years  old,  had  no 
intention  of  doing  anything  practical,  like  interdicting  Stoop  military 
supplies.  While  on  Jugurtha,  however,  Steve  had  become  a media  star 
of  the  sort  that  ruled  the  minds  and  souls  of  the  Jugur.  A human,  come 
all  the  way  to  Jugurtha  to  talk  and  convince!  He  was  a wonder.  The  war 
on  Earth  was  just  the  background  from  which  he  came.  That  fame  was 
Adalti’s  first  step. 

And  now,  after  becoming  a hero  in  the  eyes  of  the  Stoop,  who  were 
still  compelled  by  the  images  of  his  fight  in  Wisconsin,  he  had  attempted 
to  negotiate  with  them,  and  failed  again.  This  was  now  their  planet  too, 
they  said,  and  they  were  here  to  stay.  Those  of  their  number  who  wished 
to  leave  and  go  on  to  fight  on  a more  pleasant  planet  were  not  heard. 
The  weak  message  from  the  Juguijur  impressed  no  one.  He  had  hoped 
to  break  their  internal  cohesion  by  a further  demonstration  of  human 
resolve,  and  had  failed  again.  And  that  heroism  was  Adalti’s  second  step, 
for  those  same  images  had  gone  to  Jugurtha. 

“Karinth.”  Adalti  had  set  up  a ceremonial  space  for  Steve  in  what  had 
once  been  the  bottom  level  of  a parking  garage.  Stumps  of  supporting 
beams  thrust  up  armatures  of  rusted  metal.  He  gasped.  His  wounded  hip 
sockets  were  filled  with  sand.  The  pain  had  a sweet  feel  that  brought  a 
flush  to  his  skin.  The  wide  concrete  floor  around  him  was  rorschached 
with  ancient  oil  stains. 

“Karinth!”  What  did  she  think,  being  here  in  the  place  where  there 
was  no  monument  to  her  dead  daughter?  The  Stoop  had  insisted  on 
holding  the  meeting  here.  Steve  suspected  some  sort  of  cruel  arrogance. 
They  knew  of  Karinth’s  importance  to  him.  Was  this  any  way  to  treat  a 
hero? 

She  appeared  around  a crumbled  wall  and  regarded  him  solemnly.  Her 
long  shadow  slid  out  before  her,  its  flickering  edges  mixing  with  the 
detritus  on  the  ground.  They  had  not  made  love  since  that  one  night. 
She  didn’t  want  it.  He  worked  to  suppress  his  now-useless  lust. 


54 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


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“Yes,  Steve.  What  is  it?”  She  was  like  a wife  responding  to  a husband’s 
nervous,  slightly  cranky  entreaty. 

He  stumbled  toward  her  and  put  his  arms  around  her.  He  didn’t  know 
what  he  would  do  without  her.  Perhaps  he  was  now  unconsciously  ad- 
dicted to  Saleh’s  modifications  to  his  hippocampus,  his  cingulate  gyrus.  It 
didn’t  matter.  He  kissed  her  slowly,  then  rested  his  head  on  her  shoulder. 

“I’m  sorry,  sweetheart,”  he  said.  “I  did  the  best  I could.” 

She  stroked  his  hair.  “I  know.  But  you’re  such  a goddam  man,  Steve.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“You  thought  I needed  the  hard  rod  to  let  me  know  you  loved  me.” 

He  turned  away,  deeply  embarrassed.  “How  did  you — ” 

“Oh,  come  on.  I’ve  lived  in  this  world  for  a long  time.  Don’t  you  think 
I can  recognize  what’s  in  it?  That  stuff  was  developed  for  cases  of  real 
trauma . . . though  I suppose  this  is  real  trauma.  The  life  we  live  is 
traumatic.” 

“Well,”  he  said.  “Did  it  let  you  know  I loved  you  or  not?” 

She  managed  a smile.  “I  suppose  it  did  at  that.  Oh,  Steve.  There  really 
wasn’t  anything  we  could  do,  was  there?” 

“No,  there  wasn’t.”  He  felt  her  shoulder  bones  under  his  hands.  One 
of  them  felt  odd — artificial,  she’d  said.  The  body  was  everything,  the  body 
was  nothing . . . she  wore  perfume,  the  scent  she’d  worn  years  before. 
She  must  have  found  a bottle  of  it  somewhere  in  the  back  of  a closet. 
Amazing  that  it  hadn’t  evaporated. 

“And  now,  my  dear,”  he  said,  feeling  a light-headed  terror.  “Now  you 
must  kill  me.” 

She  jerked  away.  “What?” 

“Sorry.”  He  didn’t  let  her  go.  “Didn’t  mean  to  be  flip.  Or  rather  . . . well, 
what  other  reaction  am  I supposed  to  have?  Here,  look.”  He  took  her 
beyond  the  wall  and  pointed  toward  the  east.  The  Stoop  forces  were 
emplaced  there,  stretching  out  to  the  Michigan  border.  “I  have  done 
nothing.  I have  succeeded  in  nothing.” 

“Steve!  That’s  not — ” 

“Isn’t  it?  I’ve  had  a great  adventure.  I’ve  gone  to  a distant  world  and 
back.  I’ve  lost  an  entire  life  with  a woman  I love.  And  I have  failed 
completely  at  what  I wanted  to  do.  The  Juguijur  wants  to  cut  off  Stoop 
supplies  and  the  Stoop  thinks  of  giving  up  the  Earth  as  a bad  job  and 
moving  on,  but  neither  of  them  does  anything  because  no  one’s  given 
them  a reason  to.  My  attempts  at  negotiating  a solution  failed.  The  war 
will  continue.  That  is,  assuming  that  my  purpose  was  diplomatic  in  the 
first  place.” 

He  looked  at  her,  but  now  she  wouldn’t  meet  his  eyes.  She  looked  out 
instead  over  the  drifted  sand  dunes  that  had  obliterated  the  streets  of 
Gary.  “I  don’t  remember  anymore  where  Selene  died,  exactly.  The  sand 


56 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


covers  it  all  up,  and  all  those  old  buildings  are  gone.  But  you  saw  us  on 
the  news,  didn’t  you.” 

“I  did.  And  they’ll  see  me.  Talk  to  Adalti.  He  knows.  What  will — ” 

“Oh,  some  damn  thing,”  she  said  harshly.  “Easy  enough  to  make  this 
entire  negotiation  look  like  an  ambush,  an  attempt  to  destroy  the  Stoop 
in  one  blow.  Adalti  can  show  it  that  way,  if  he  wants.  We’ll  help.  The 
Stoop  will  react  quickly.”  What  he  had  told  her  was  not  really  a surprise 
to  her.  She’d  known  it  all  along.  Karinth  had  always  been  a little  ahead 
of  him. 

“I  wanted  to  succeed,”  he  said  plaintively.  “I  didn’t  want  it  to  come  to 
this.  Know  that,  Karinth.” 

“I  know.”  She  sighed.  “But  that’s  not  good  art,  and  Adalti  is  an  artist. 
I’m  sorry  you  never  got  to  meet  Selene.  I think  you  would  have  liked 
her.”  A kiss,  and  she  was  gone,  the  woman  who  had  risked  herself  and 
lost  her  daughter  in  a ploy  to  get  good  war  coverage  from  the  eyemouths. 
Steve  looked  after  her  and  wished  she  had  tried  to  talk  him  out  of  it. 

The  sun  rose  and  the  snow-covered  dunes  gleamed  around  him.  The 
Stoop  would  blame  him.  He  didn’t  know  how  Adalti  would  play  it,  how 
he  would  convince  the  Stoop  that  this  entire  negotiation  was  simply  a 
ploy  to  get  them  here  in  one  place  so  that  they  could  be  destroyed,  but 
he  knew  Adalti  would  do  it.  And  the  Stoop  would  know  that  it  was  all 
Steve  Hardt’s  doing.  He  sat  down  in  a chair,  favoring  his  injured  hip, 
and  waited. 

The  Stoop  attack  on  the  negotiation  ground  started  just  before  noon. 

“The  Consortium  will  kill  me,”  Karinth  Tolback,  smoke-blackened, 
bleeding  from  a fresh  wound  in  her  thigh,  said  to  the  eyemouth  Adalti. 
“They  think  I planned  it  all.” 

The  dull  sound  of  some  vast,  distant  explosion  drifted  over  them  and 
wandered  out  into  the  lake.  One  of  Adalti’s  ever-present  screens  showed 
images  of  metal  bending,  brick  and  concrete  shattering.  It  was  impossible 
to  tell  where  it  was,  what  was  happening,  who  was  dying.  Without  con- 
text, an  explosion  is  entirely  anonymous. 

“Aren’t  they  too  busy  fighting  the  Stoop?”  Adalti  could  barely  give  her 
any  attention.  War  had  spread  across  the  center  of  the  continent  in  the 
wake  of  the  Stoop  attack  on  Gary,  from  Alberta  down  into  the  Appala- 
chians. Each  screen  showed  another  bright  fragment  of  the  bleizing, 
bloody  war.  And  Adalti,  the  master  craftsman,  laid  each  one  down  in  its 
proper  place  in  the  mosaic.  It  would  make  sense.  When  someone  could 
finally  sit  down  and  watch  it,  it  would  make  sense.  Quite  unlike  now. 

Karinth  leaned  against  the  broken-off  trunk  of  a tree.  The  wave  of 
dizziness  passed.  “They  can  spare  a little  thought  for  me.  I’ve  succeeded 
in  destroying  the  central  organization  of  the  Great  Lakes  Consortium. 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


57 


Getting  me  won’t  help  the  military  situation,  but  it  will  make  them  feel 
better.  That’s  as  much  as  they  can  do  now.” 

“He  died  bravely,”  Adalti  said.  “He  really  did.” 

“No,”  Karinth  said.  “I  don’t  want — ” 

Steve’s  face  blossomed  on  the  screens.  He  stood  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
parking  structure,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  waiting.  The  attack  was  coming 
from  the  sky.  There  wasn’t  anything  he  could  do.  He  couldn’t  slap  the 
bombs  out  of  the  air  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  So  he  stood  there,  stern, 
a little  sad,  and  waited. 

Karinth  couldn’t  turn  her  eyes  away.  The  end,  when  it  came,  was  just 
one  single  bright  flash  of  light.  When  the  smoke  cleared,  and  the  eyes 
recovered,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  She  supposed  someone  digging 
through  the  rubble  could  have  found  molars,  chunks  of  flesh.  Angers. 

It  was  a good  job,  perfect  for  both  the  Jugur  home  market  and  the 
Stoop.  Their  pet  negotiator,  their  mascot,  Steve  Hardt,  finally  asserted 
his  fundamental  loyalties.  He  and  countless  others  had  died  to  create  a 
show  for  the  Jugur  to  watch  while  eating  dinner.  If  they  stopped  chewing 
for  just  a moment,  it  would  have  served  its  purpose. 

“The  Stoop  will  leave  now,”  Adalti  said  crisply.  “Some  already  are.”  A 
ship  rose  up  from  an  anonymous  field,  leaving  behind  it  the  abandoned 
remains  of  what  was  clearly  a Stoop  military  camp.  “This  last  war  is  just 
the  maintenance  of  pride.” 

“Pride!  It  will  leave  us  with  nothing  but  ruins.” 

“Rejoice,  Karinth  Tolback.  Victory  is  yours.  Steve  Hardt  was  a symbol 
to  the  Juguijur.  Now  they  will  act,  cutting  off  the  Stoop’s  lifelines.  And 
he  was  a symbol  to  the  Stoop.  The  Stoop  itself  is  humiliated.  Those  in 
favor  of  leaving  the  Earth  will  have  their  way.  You  have  won.” 

“I  guess  we  have.” 

She  looked  at  the  Jugur.  He  knelt  in  the  sand,  gazing  at  his  screens, 
seeing  images  in  his  head.  It  seemed  he  would  never  stop.  Not  until  the 
last  instant  of  his  life.  He  had  been  on  Earth  for  over  thirty  years, 
creating  his  great  work. 

“Please,”  she  heard  her  voice  say.  “The  lights.”  A screen  showed  her 
and  Steve,  in  the  dark,  making  love.  She  watched  despite  herself.  He’d 
thought  it  would  make  her  happy  if  he  could  make  love  to  her,  at  least 
once,  and  he  had  been  right. 

Other  images  flashed.  Steve  and  Karinth  running  together  up  a rough 
trail  in  Anatolia,  laughing  and  racing  ahead  of  each  other.  Steve  in  the 
middle  of  a great  field  on  Jugurtha,  rows  and  rows  of  empty  stone  seats 
rising  up  around  him.  Karinth  kissing  Selene  one  last  time  before  send- 
ing her  daughter  out  in  her  armored  carrier.  Steve  struggling  through 
the  snow,  pulling  a sledge  behind  him.  Karinth  catching  sight  of  Steve 
on  the  security  screen  in  her  apartment. 


58 


ALEXANDER  JABLOKOV 


That  had  been  Adalti’s  great  work.  The  saga  of  the  war  between  human 
being  and  Jugur  couldn’t  be  shown  directly.  That  was  just  explosions 
and  dead  bodies.  He’d  decided  to  do  it  through  Karinth  Tolback  and  Steve 
Hardt.  From  the  moment  he  had  met  them  in  Anatolia,  he  had  structured 
everything  around  them.  He’d  sent  Steve  away,  aged  her,  brought  him 
back.  He’d  made  sure  Steve  died.  He’d  made  sure  the  Stoop  finally  re- 
moved themselves  from  the  globe  they  had  tried  to  destroy,  and  left  the 
Earth  in  peace.  Every  work  of  art  must  reach  closure. 

A tear  trembled  at  the  end  of  her  nose  and  she  wiped  it  away.  “How 
much  time  would  it  take  to  watch  the  whole  thing?”  she  asked.  “All  the 
way  through.” 

Adalti  folded  his  gear  away.  Other  eyemouths  busily  loaded  it  into  a 
bulbous  wide-tired  vehicle. 

“Twenty-four  of  your  hours,”  he  said.  “Many  will  do  it.  Millions.  I am 
immortal.  So  are  you.” 

“Adalti!”  She  almost  stepped  forward  to  grab  him  and  break  his  slender 
neck. 

“Goodbye,  Karinth  Tolback.  We  will  not  speak  again.”  He  stepped  into 
the  vehicle  and  it  sped  away  across  the  sand.  In  a few  seconds,  it  had 
disappeared. 

She’d  never  understood  him,  not  even  for  an  instant.  He  was  a genius, 
and  a genius  of  an  alien  race.  Thirty  years  in  twenty-four  hours,  all  held 
by  the  structure  of  a brilliant  work  of  art.  Damn  the  art,  she  thought. 
She’d  trade  every  second  of  that  thirty  years  for  just  one  afternoon  mak- 
ing love  on  a high  rock  in  the  sunlight. 

She  knelt  in  the  cold  sand,  turned  her  face  to  the  sun,  and  closed  her 
eyes. 


She  ignored  the  almost-subliminal  whine  of  the  flying  camera  that 
caught  the  final  scene.  # 


SUMMER  AND  ICE 


59 


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Canadian  author  Sally  McBride  was  born  in  Toronto,  Ontario,  and 
now  lives  in  Victoria,  British  Columbia,  with  her  husband,  David 
Sproule.  Her  credits  include  SF  and  fantasy  publications  in  F&SF,  On 
Spec,  Tesseracts,  and  Matrix.  A story  she  co-wrote  was  nominated  for 
a Nebula  and  she  recently  finished  a novel.  Ms.  McBride's  dark  and 
unsettling  story  about  'The  Fragrance  of  Orchids"  marks  her  first 
appearance  in  Asimov's. 


Sally  McBride 

THE  FRAGRANCE 
OF  ORCHIRS 

^ j art;  Karl  F,  Huber 

ST  i f"- 


November,  2023;  North  Wells,  Maine 


On  Monday  morning,  a message  waited  on  Sarah  Lightbum’s  answer- 
ing machine.  It  was  Seule,  breathless,  forgetting  to  say  when  the  call 
was  made,  or  if  she  intended  to  call  back.  Sarah,  who  up  till  now  had 
been  happy  with  their  progress,  felt  a sinking  in  her  heart. 

“ — I know  I can  handle  it.  Nothing  will  happen,  we’ll  be  working 
together,  that’s  all.  Clay  needs  me.”  Seule’s  voice  was  happy,  excited. 
“His  project  needs  me.  You’ve  helped  me  so  much,  Sarah.  I really  feel 
that  I have  my  emotions  under  control,  and  if  it  turns  out  that  I 
don’t . . . well.  I’ll  call  you.  I think  of  you  as  a friend.  You  know  that, 
don’t  you?  Please  be  happy  for  me,  Sarah.  Everything  will  be  all  right.” 

A pause,  and  the  sound  of  rapid  breathing.  Sarah  heard  Seule’s  claws 
clicking  impatiently  on  the  receiver,  and  thumping  noises  in  the  back- 
ground. 

“I  have  to  go.  The  driver  is  taking  my  stuff  out  to  the  airport  limo. 
Walter’s  picking  me  up  in  Washington.” 

Walter  Farber  was  head  of  the  psychiatric  team  assigned  to  the  alien. 
He’d  be  happy  now,  thought  Sarah,  with  his  baby  back  in  the  nest.  She 
knew  that  Farber  resented  anyone  other  than  himself  having  success 
with  Seule,  and  she  wondered  if  his  attitude  stemmed  from  the  past.  Or 
did  the  past  mean  anything  to  a man  like  Farber? 

“Don’t  worry,”  said  Seule,  unsuppressed  excitement  in  her  voice. 
“Thank  you  for  everything — ” 

A click  and  she  was  gone. 

Sarah  saved  the  message,  automatically  hitting  the  buttons  on  her  old 
machine.  She’d  been  working  with  the  alien  for  almost  half  a year,  and 
they’d  made  it  past  the  games,  past  Seule’s  evasions  and  the  tricks  Sarah 
used  to  counter  them,  and  were  getting  to  the  real  stuff.  Contrary  to  her 
initial  misgivings,  she’d  started  to  believe  that  their  sessions  might  be 
leading  somewhere. 

Investigations  into  the  similarities  and  very  definite  differences  be- 
tween human  and  animal  mentation — the  thought  patterns  forming  the 
mind — had  fascinated  Sarah  when  she’d  worked  with  Farber.  She’d  been 
a pink-cheeked  grad  student,  eager  as  a puppy,  working  mainly  with 
dogs  until  Farber  had  been  tapped  for  the  alien  assignment.  He  hadn’t 
taken  her  with  him,  and  funding  for  projects  such  as  hers  had  inevitably 
dried  up  without  the  canny  grantsmanship  he’d  practiced.  Individual 
animals  she’d  grown  to  understand  and  respect — with  more  than  the  love 
one  gives  an  intelligent  pet — ^had  grown  old  and  died,  or  had  become  too 
withdrawn  and  dangerous  to  work  with.  People  hadn’t  liked  the  idea  of 
animals  who  were  smarter  than  their  five-year-old  children;  Sarah  of 


64 


SALLY  McBRIDE 


necessity  turned  her  interests  elsewhere.  She’d  gone  into  psychiatry,  and 
had  ended  up  practicing  in  North  Wells,  a medium-sized  town  in  Maine. 

Sarah  spent  most  of  her  time  working  with  clients  who  might  most 
benefit  from  her  blended  background  in  psychiatry  and  non-human  men- 
tation, including  a few  of  the  privately  owned  animals  still  living  with 
their  human  mentors.  Until  Seule,  non-human  had  meant  animal  or 
artificial. 

Sarah  chewed  on  her  lower  lip  and  took  a hard  copy  of  Seule’s  message 
for  her  files.  Was  Seule  an  animal?  Relations  between  humans  and  ani- 
mals were  sometimes  very  good,  sometimes  bad.  When  they  were  bad 
they  were,  of  course,  very  often  worse  than  horrid. 

She  queued  the  message  for  transmission  to  Farber  later  when  the 
rates  went  down,  and  put  on  the  morning  pot  of  coffee. 

Two  weeks  after  Seule’s  breathless  farewell,  Sarah  was  on  board  an 
old  government  heli-jet  halfway  between  North  Wells  and  Washington. 
She  was  wide  awake,  angry  and  scared,  and  sat  hunched  in  her  seat 
dictating  quietly  into  her  journal.  “We’re  flying  high  to  avoid  a snow- 
storm,” she  said.  “This  rustbucket  is  rattling  and  dipping  like  a voodoo 
dancer,  so  I’ll  keep  this  entry  brief.  This  whole  business  makes  me  ill. 
It’s  so  stupid!  Can  there  possibly  be  a sane  reason  for  what  she’s  done? 
Damn,  if  she’s  going  to  make  it  as  a human,  she’s  got  to  learn  to  bear 
pain  and  rejection.  Why  should  she  be  any  different?” 

Sarah  paused,  staring  angrily  out  the  tiny,  triple-paned  window  at  the 
indigo  horizon.  “Of  course  I don’t  mean  that.  Seule  is  different.  Her 
problem  is  that  though  she  understands  it  intellectually,  she  can’t  really 
believe  it. 

“I  heard  desperation  in  Farber’s  voice  through  the  static  on  his  trans- 
mission from  Washington.  What  should  I expect?  He  sees  his  life’s  work 
disappearing.  And  I bet  the  bastard’ll  try  to  blame  it  on  me.  Farber’s 
mistake  was  putting  too  many  emotional  and  professional  eggs  into  one 
basket.  My  mistake?  Going  after  Seule  as  a client  in  the  first  place.  I 
was  flattered  even  to  be  considered.  So  who  wouldn’t  be?” 

She  paused.  No,  she  thought.  It  was  never  a mistake,  no  matter  what 
might  happen  . . . Sarah  clicked  off  her  recorder  and  scowled  at  the  night. 

Spring,  2023;  North  Wells 

Sarah  first  saw  the  alien  when  it  came  loping  up  the  walk  to  her  office 
for  its  initial  session.  It  had  an  eager,  dog-on-a-walk  look,  like  a rump- 
heavy  greyhound  wearing  a thick  pink  scarf. 

Sarah  unashamedly  craned  her  neck  out  the  window  of  her  office,  on 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


65 


the  second  floor  of  an  old  renovated  mansion,  the  better  to  catch  her  first 
in-the-flesh  glimpse  of  the  creature.  What  had  looked  like  a scarf  around 
Seule’s  neck  fluttered  up  to  become  two  ragged  appendages  which 
grasped  the  old  brass  doorknob  and  turned  it.  Sarah  had  admitted  to 
herself  that  she  was  nervous.  This  was  no  ordinary  case.  She  pulled  her 
head  back  inside  her  office. 

There  would  be  papers  in  it  for  her,  perhaps  a book.  How  many  had 
been  written  already?  She  dumped  her  half-finished  coffee  into  her  wash- 
room sink,  popped  a breath  freshener  in  her  mouth  and  ran  a hand 
through  her  hair.  Ready  to  meet  the  alien. 

During  an  early  session,  Sarah  made  the  mistake  of  handing  Seule  a 
Kleenex  when  they  had  reached  an  emotional  crisis.  It  was  a purely 
reflex  action,  and  she  felt  stupid  as  soon  as  she’d  done  it,  as  though  she’d 
been  suckered  somehow.  Seule  didn’t  need  the  tissue,  having  no  nose  to 
rvm,  no  tear  ducts  to  leak,  and  Sarah  knew  that.  But  the  alien  took  the 
token  remedy,  held  it.  It  became  a tradition  between  them,  an  occasion 
for  smiles. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  Sarah  found  that  Seule  knew  the  term  “shrink,” 
and  enjoyed  digging  subtle  meaning  from  the  word.  The  alien  loved 
words  and  was  fluent  in  several  languages.  She  loved  the  symbols  in 
mathematics,  and  the  archetypes  of  humanity  hidden  in  music  and  paint- 
ings. Once,  on  entering  the  counselor’s  office,  Seule  had  caught  Sarah 
Lightbum,  hands  in  pockets,  squinting  at  a framed  quotation  on  the 
wall.  It  was  from  the  I Ching,  and  said: 

And  when  two  people  understand  each  other 
in  their  innermost  hearts. 

Their  words  are  sweet  and  strong,  like 
the  fragrance  of  orchids. 

Seule  came  and  stood  beside  her  companionably,  reading  it  too.  Sarah 
suppressed  a throb  of  anger.  The  quotation  seemed  insipid,  worthless;  it 
had  nothing  to  do  with  real  life.  She  turned  her  back  to  it,  smiling 
brightly  at  Seule. 

As  they  took  their  customary  seats,  Sarah  wondered  what  had  hap- 
pened to  her  youthful  idealism.  The  message  she  kept  on  her  wall  was 
vague  yet  hopeful,  mystical  yet  worded  simply  and  openly;  did  it  have 
any  relevance  to  her  life  now?  Seule  bounded  in  each  day,  eager,  hopeful, 
seeming  to  fill  the  room  with  her  strangeness  and  the  queer  scent  of  her 
hide.  Reality  was  observation,  deduction,  counsel. 

Dr.  Farber’s  office  called  Sarah  every  week.  She  dared  not  ignore  his 
punctilious  insistence  on  having  every  session  downloaded  to  him,  realiz- 
ing that  she  could  either  agree  to  his  terms  or  blow  the  chance  to  work, 
however  briefly,  with  Seule. 


66 


SALLY  McBRIDE 


When  her  application  as  a local  contact  for  Seule  had  been  approved, 
Sarah  was  frankly  surprised.  Walter  Farber’s  life  had  veered  so  far  onto 
its  new  trajectory  that  she’d  doubted  ever  meeting  him  again. 


November,  2023;  Washington,  DC 

Walter  and  I can’t  avoid  each  other  now,  thought  Sarah  grimly.  I’ll  be 
in  Washington  in  another  half  an  hour.  The  heli-jet  hit  a bump  in  the 
air  and  her  stomach  lurched. 

In  French  seule  means  “alone.”  The  astronauts  who  had  found  the 
alien  had  thought  the  name  appropriate.  The  pretty  creature  had  been 
doted  on  zealously  during  the  long  trip  back  to  Earth  from  Jupiter  orbit. 
The  men  were  reprimanded  for  teaching  the  alien  child  French  and 
English  words:  lait,  for  the  pseudo-milk  it  learned  to  lap  from  a cup; 
hand,  whisker;  bon  jour,  good  morning.  It  would  have  been  better,  they 
were  told  in  stern  directives  from  Earth,  to  have  left  its  brain  unsullied 
by  human  influences. 

Now,  eighteen  years  later,  no  back  page  was  complete  without  some 
tidbit  on  The  Alien. 

Like  an  old-time  movie  star  she  passed  through  life  in  a shell  of  her 
own  exclusivity,  forever  alone  in  a crowd.  After  years  on  earth  her 
strangeness  had  been  diluted  into  triviality. 

But  now  . . . now,  she’d  committed  an  act  so  outrageous,  so  desperate, 
as  to  vault  her  back  into  the  headlines  with  a vengeance. 

The  heli-jet  touched  down  in  Washington  just  ahead  of  the  snow.  Sarah 
was  taken  directly  to  the  hospital  and  allowed  to  observe  Seule  for  a 
moment,  then,  after  finding  that  nothing  had  yet  been  organized  in  the 
way  of  briefings  or  investigations,  headed  to  an  all-night  restaurant  next 
to  the  hospital.  It  wasn’t  much,  but  after  what  she’d  seen  she  didn’t  feel 
like  eating  anyway.  A pack  of  newspeople  in  search  of  coffee  arrived  to 
put  in  time  before  the  first  press  conference.  Sarah,  amazed  at  how  few 
people  knew  what  was  going  on,  sourly  predicted  imminent  mobs  of  pro- 
and  anti-aliens  bopping  each  other  with  signs.  As  well,  of  course,  as  the 
ones  who  had  claimed  all  along  she  was  a hoax. 

Alone  in  a high-backed  booth,  Sarah  pushed  her  half-eaten  plate  of 
fish  and  chips  away. 

She  whispered  into  her  journal,  rubbing  her  eyes  with  the  back  of  one 
wrist.  “She’s  not  a hoax.  It’s  all  real;  her  blood  and  Elliot’s,  the  violent, 
hopeless  thing  she  did.  Seule  was  unconscious  when  I got  a glimpse  of 
her  being  wheeled  out  of  surgery.  She  was  bandaged,  slung  with  tubes 
and  monitors,  and  looked  small  and  very  pathetic. 

“Clay  Elliot’s  body  is  down  in  Pathology,  waiting  for  an  autopsy  to 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


67 


confirm  the  obvious:  death  by  massive  lacerations;  that,  in  fact,  he  was 
tom  to  pieces  by  a creature  who  has  spent  the  last  half-year  proclaiming 
her  love  for  him.” 

Technically,  Seule  was  female.  People  preferred  to  think  of  her  that 
way,  seeing  beauty  in  her  silver  eyes  and  narrow  black  face.  For  her  to 
perform  an  ungraceful  act  or  to  step  across  the  boundaries  of  human 
expectation  into  violence  was  unthinkable.  What  would  happen  to  her 
now  that  she’d  done  the  unthinkable?  Sarah  pinched  the  bridge  of  her 
nose  and  lifted  her  coffee  cup. 

“Is  Seule  thankful  for  being  saved  from  timeless  oblivion  in  space?  If 
I were  Seule,  I think  I would  rather  have  stayed  dead.” 

Sarah  yawned,  feeling  cold  and  tired.  The  ersatz  coffee  was  weak  and 
insipid,  but  she  accepted  a refill  from  the  waiter.  At  least  it  was  hot.  “I 
remember  the  fuss  that  was  made  when  Seule  moved  to  our  town,”  she 
said  to  her  joiumal.  “It  was  announced  smugly  that  The  Alien  had  chosen 
North  Wells  because  of  the  excellent  research  facility  where  she  would 
work  as  a member  of  the  team  decoding  the  ship’s  records.  Actually  she 
had  been  assigned  there  in  an  effort  to  keep  her  happy  and  quiet;  whether 
she  could  do  useful  work  or  not  was  immaterial.  It  came  out  that  she  had 
developed  a passion  for  one  of  the  scientists  studying  her,  a kinesiologist 
named  Clay  Elliot,  and  was  essentially  being  sent  out  of  harm’s  way. 

“She  was  pining  away  apart  from  him,  and  needed  to  work  it  all  out. 
Farber  briefed  me  ahead  of  time,  using  words  of  one  syllable  in  his  usual 
dickheaded  way.  He  warned  me  that  she’d  be  reluctant  to  talk  about  it.” 

Sarah  snorted.  “So  she’s  sent  to  me,  the  perfect  person  to  help  her  get 
over  a bad  love  affair.  It’s  so  stupid.  I’ve  never  heard  of  anything  so 
damned  stupid  in  my  life.”  Sarah  clicked  off  the  recorder  and  stuffed  it 
in  her  bag. 


June,  2023;  North  Wells 

Seule  had  come  to  Sarah  late  in  spring;  now  it  was  summer,  their  sixth 
session,  and  hot.  Sarah’s  office  windows  were  open.  Seule  was  curled  on 
a chair,  her  main  limbs  tucked  under  her  smooth  mid-section.  They  were 
starting  to  be  comfortable  with  each  other.  Sarah  was  still  probing  the 
edges  of  Seule’s  attitude  of  cheerful  denial  of  any  real  problem. 

Seule  was  silvery-rose  in  color,  her  dense  silky  coat  more  like  napped 
fabric  than  fur.  The  mouth  in  her  long,  thin  head  bore  an  alarming  set 
of  teeth  revealed  when  her  narrow  black  lips  drew  back  in  a smile  or  a 
laugh.  She  had  a human  propensity  to  laugh,  a human  appreciation  for 
the  absurd. 


68 


SALLY  MCBRIDE 


“People  ask  if  I mind  being  monitored,”  said  Seule.  “I  don’t.  It’s  neces- 
sary.” They  were  talking  about  freedom;  what  the  word  meant  when 
used  in  the  context  of  Seule’s  life.  “I  must  be  a tempting  target.” 

“Unfortunately,  yes,”  affirmed  Sarah,  keeping  her  expression  bland. 
Her  long  legs  were  crossed  ankle  over  knee,  manlike,  and  her  short 
brown  hair  was  tucked  behind  her  ears. 

She  wondered  at  first  if  the  government  had  wired  her  office  when 
Seule  had  started  her  sessions,  but  knew  that  it  didn’t  make  a bit  of 
difference.  Of  course  they  had  wired  it.  'The  bodyguards  in  her  reception 
area,  the  eye  that  hovered  outside  the  building  to  gain  a clear  view 
through  her  window  were  all  deemed  necessary  by  someone.  The  eye 
followed  Seule  everywhere,  and  rumor  spread  that  it  had  the  capability 
of  defensive  fire.  It  had  not  yet  been  put  to  the  test. 

During  the  last  year,  Seule  had  been  allowed  to  travel,  to  visit  private 
homes,  to  live  relatively  unsupervised.  Social  conventions  on  how  to  treat 
the  alien  were  being  formulated  ad  hoc;  so  far  Seule  remained  unharmed. 

Sarah  had  read  the  multi-volume  case  history  Dr.  Farber  sent  her, 
skipping  over  the  charts  and  bio-chemical  analyses  of  Seule’s  flesh  and 
excretions,  snorting  at  the  extrapolations  as  to  her  kind’s  origin.  Guesses, 
Sarah  had  thought.  They’re  only  giving  her  a loose  leash  now  because 
they  can’t  think  of  any  more  tests  to  run.  It’s  damned  pathetic,  really. 

“Walter  Farber  has  been  with  you  all  along,  hasn’t  he?” 

Seule’s  limbs  shifted,  a silky  whisper  against  the  chair’s  fabric.  Ab- 
sently she  poked  holes  in  her  unused  Kleenex  with  one  of  the  soft,  finger- 
like projections  on  her  neck. 

“Yes,  he  has.  I remember  being  bounced  on  his  knee,  and  the  expres- 
sion he  wore  when  I jumped  to  his  shoulder  and  then  to  the  top  of  a filing 
cabinet.  He  never  got  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  I think  he  wanted  me  to 
be  more  like  a human  child.  Perhaps  he  still  does.” 

Seule’s  silver  eyes  slid  past  Sarah’s.  She  seemed  bored;  they’d  gone 
over  this  before.  She  leaned  forward.  “Do  you  know,  he  kept  my  dog  until 
I could  find  a place  here  and  get  him  sent  out.  Would  you  like  to  see 
Amie’s  picture?” 

Seule  rummaged  in  the  leather  pwuch  she  wore  slung  around  her  hind 
quarters.  Seule  had  mentioned  Amie  before,  with  great  affection,  and 
Sarah  had  always  found  it  oddly  poignant  that  the  alien  had  a pet.  She 
accepted  the  photo- vid  Seule  passed  to  her:  the  alien  and  her  dog,  pausing 
for  a moment  in  a romp,  then  bounding  away  in  unison.  The  dog  was 
some  kind  of  wolfhound  and  looked  like  a primitive,  masculine  version 
of  Seule.  Sarah  could  tell  by  the  way  the  dog  moved  that  he  was  a true 
dog,  not  enhanced,  and  she  felt  a small  pang.  It  was  hard  to  look  at 
animals  and  not  see  instead  the  psuedo-human  personalities  laid  on  top 
like  icing  on  a perfectly  good  cake.  Though  she  missed  some  of  her  old 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


69 


doggy  friends,  Sarah  was  glad  that  no  more  enhancement  was  being 
done.  Dealing  with  Seule  was  another  order  of  magnitude  entirely.  The 
two,  terrestrial  dog  and  space-faring  alien,  leapt  in  Sarah’s  hand  until 
she  passed  the  photo  back. 

“He’s  a beautiful  animal.” 

Only  one  stasis  pod  in  the  alien  ship  had  been  intact,  in  what  must 
have  been  a creche  area;  it  contained  the  baby  Seule.  The  others  held 
only  the  dead:  thirty  thousand  years  dead,  according  to  analysis  of  the 
exterior  of  their  ship  and  the  deterioration  of  components  within.  All  of 
her  family,  and  most  likely  all  of  her  race,  were  extinct. 

“Let’s  talk  about  Clay,”  said  Sarah  quietly.  “If  it’s  all  right  with  you.” 

Seule’s  ears  drooped  immediately,  and  she  curled  herself  more  tightly 
in  the  chair. 

“Yes.  Let’s.”  Her  eyes  were  unreadable,  though  Sarah  had  noticed  how 
the  moods  telegraphed  by  Seule’s  lips  and  ears  were  easily  understood, 
as  one  would  read  joy,  or  eagerness,  or  disappointment  in  a dog’s  face. 

“Have  you  sent  a letter  to  him,  as  I suggested  last  week?” 

Seule’s  ears  drew  back  against  the  rounded  crown  of  her  skull.  Her 
fringe  of  fingers  was  completely  still  for  once. 

“I  can’t.  What  if  he  doesn’t  answer?” 

“What  if  he  does?  Tell  me  how  you’d  feel  if  he  answered.” 

Seule  looked  away.  She  replied  slowly,  choosing  words  which  caught 
harshly  between  her  pointed  teeth.  “He  won’t.  I really  hope  he  doesn’t, 
you  know.  I’m  afraid  I might  abandon  all  my  self-respect  and  run  to 
him.” 

“It’s  been  almost  six  months,  Seule.  . . .” 

“What  does  time  have  to  do  with  it?  And  who  else  may  I love  but  a 
human?  Human  is  what  I am,  though  I don’t  look  it.  What  if  my  kind 
mates  for  life?  What  if  I never  get  over  him?” 

“It  takes  time,  I know.  Believe  me.  . . .” 

Seule’s  powerful  hind  legs  propelled  her  off  the  chair.  She  bounded  to 
the  window,  stared  out  at  maple  trees  dressed  in  new  green.  “I  look  into 
a mirror  and  see  this  alien  thing.  But  I don’t  feel  alien.  You  humans  say 
I’m  lovely,  you  say  I’m  exotic,  unique.  Well,  you’re  right,  damn  you  all. 
I’m  the  only  one  of  me,  and  it  hurts.” 


November,  2023;  Washington  DC 

“It’s  now  four  in  the  morning,”  said  Sarah  tiredly  into  her  recorder. 
“I’m  back  at  the  hospital.  Washington  never  goes  to  sleep  completely, 
certainly  a big  hospital  never  slows  down.  They  had  to  clear  a floor  for 
her,  which  no  one  here  seems  happy  about,  but  she’ll  be  whisked  off  to 


70 


SALLY  McBRIDE 


Houston  as  soon  as  she’s  able  to  be  moved.”  She  had  to  raise  her  voice 
over  the  babble  of  talk,  clacking  footsteps,  and  cell  phones  beeping. 

“Apparently  Seule’s  guardian  eye,  confused  by  the  fact  that  Seule  was 
the  attacker,  didn’t  try  any  fancy  shooting.  It  screamed  for  help  and 
hovered,  recording,  till  someone  came.  Fortunately,  for  Seule  anyway, 
that  wasn’t  long.  It  all  happened  so  fast ...  it  was  very  painful  to  watch.” 

Sarah  was  still  shaken.  There  were  few  civilians  among  the  tight- 
lipped  men  and  women  in  uniforms  at  the  briefing.  The  videotape  was 
fish-eye  distorted,  and  the  sound  buzzed  and  squalled. 

Seule  and  Clayton  Elliot  were  working  alone  in  a mock-up  of  the 
alien  craft’s  interior,  observing  the  varied  responses  of  an  environmental 
panel.  They  were  talking  quietly,  the  eye  only  picking  up  the  odd  innocu- 
ous phrase.  Clayton,  a dark,  angular  man  with  the  weedy  look  of  a 
student,  leaned  across  his  station  and  took  Seule’s  left  forefoot  in  his 
hand,  forcefully  directing  it  to  a spot  on  the  panel.  In  slow  motion  replay, 
Sarah  watched  his  expression.  He  looked  peevish,  impatient. 

Seule’s  forefoot,  claws  sheathed,  slid  up  Clayton’s  arm  and  around  his 
neck,  pulling  him  toward  her.  He  drew  back.  It  was  obvious  that  her 
strength  exceeded  his.  His  muscles  tensed,  his  face  showed  repulsion. 
Worse,  it  showed  boredom,  irritation.  When  Sarah  saw  this  look,  she 
knew  instinctively  what  would  happen  next. 

Cla5rton  pushed  Seule  away.  Seule  clasped  him  more  firmly;  he  strug- 
gled, swore.  She  began  to  whine,  a high  keening.  Sarah  was  familiar 
with  the  look  of  Seule,  but  this  sound  was  utterly  alien.  Its  meaning  was 
universal.  The  next  few  seconds  were  full  of  action,  too  fast  to  follow  well 
even  in  slow  motion.  Clayton  struck  at  her  and  she  raked  him  with  her 
hind  legs,  as  a cat  would  a rabbit,  still  clutching  him  with  her  clawed 
forelegs.  She  was  licking  his  face  as  he  screamed.  Her  neck-fingers 
grasped  and  stroked  his  face,  his  neck,  his  eyes  and  mouth. 

Hands  and  bodies  intruded  suddenly,  the  eye  pulled  back,  wobbled, 
and  recorded  five  or  six  people  trying  to  separate  them.  Upon  being 
removed  from  contact  with  Clayton’s  body,  Seule  collapsed  and  began  to 
slash  at  her  own  limbs  with  her  teeth.  Someone  pulled  her  head  back, 
two  men  held  her  limbs.  Crashing  noises,  shouts,  the  spurting  of  blood. 
It  had  been,  literally,  a shambles. 

Sarah  rubbed  her  eyes,  replaying  the  scene  in  her  mind,  and  fought 
down  an  intense  longing  for  her  own  bed  in  North  Wells.  She  forced 
herself  to  sit  straight  in  her  orange  plastic  chair  and  take  a deep  breath. 
The  taped  scene  intruded  mercilessly  past  the  blank  taupe  walls  of  the 
visitors’  lounge,  where  she’d  gone  to  hide  from  the  uproar  after  the 
briefing. 

Her  face  brightened  momentarily.  “At  least  I got  a chance  to  talk  to 
Jim  Wright,”  she  told  her  recorder.  “I  recognized  him  as  we  entered  the 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


71 


briefing  room  and  figured  that  of  course  he’d  be  here — where  else  at  a 
time  like  this?  When  I was  twenty,  a junior  at  Colorado  State,  I fell 
madly  in  love  with  Jim  (didn’t  we  all?);  big,  handsome,  holding  the  alien 
baby  in  his  arms.  The  man  who  entered  the  derelict  ship  and  came  back 
with  a real  E.T.  He’s  still  handsome,  still  a figure  of  romance,  and  I got 
a bit  light-headed  sitting  next  to  him.  Me  and  my  bump  of  hero-worship. 
We  talked  about  Seule,  and  I figured  out  the  kind  of  man  Jim  is.” 

Sarah  smiled  bleakly.  Jim  Wright  had  taken  the  viewing  harder  than 
anyone  else,  though  unlike  some  others  he  hadn’t  turned  away.  White- 
faced and  flag-pole  straight,  he’d  watched  every  second  of  the  carnage. 

“There’s  a certain  kind  of  parent  who  brings  their  child  to  me  for 
diagnosis.  The  kid  is  ostracized,  friendless;  usually  ugly,  often  intelligent 
and  artistic.  A complete  misfit.  Everyone  except  the  parent  knows  the 
poor  kid  is  a hopeless  case;  the  parent,  however,  loves  this  child  with  a 
complete,  stubborn  devotion.  The  parent  never  gives  up  on  the  idea  that 
someday  everything  will  come  out  right  for  the  ugly  duckling.  Jim 
Wright  is  that  sort  of  parent.  As  far  as  I know  he  has  no  children  of  his 
own.  Only  Seule.  I wonder  if  she  knows  how  much  he  loves  her?” 

Sareih  stopped  to  blow  her  nose.  She  pulled  a mirror  out  of  her  capa- 
cious bag  and  dabbed  haphazardly  at  her  eyes  while  the  recorder  paused, 
waiting  for  her  voice. 

“He’s  left  to  try  calling  Yves  Giguere,  another  crew  member  who  is 
now  high  up  in  the  European  Space  Agency,  and  who  might  want  to  be 
here.  None  of  the  others  has  made  it  yet,  but  Jim  keeps  trying  to  collect 
them  all  by  the  bedside.  I’ll  tuck  this  away  now,  and  try  again  to  see 
her.” 

Sarah,  clad  in  baggy  blue  track  pants  and  an  unflattering  sweater,  a 
huge,  crammed  bag  slung  over  one  shoulder,  tangled  with  the  security 
guard  outside  Seule’s  room  once  again.  Before  she  could  make  headway, 
she  was  waylaid  by  Dr.  Walter  Farber.  She’d  seen  him  at  the  briefing 
and  had  slipped  away  before  it  became  necessary  to  speak  to  him. 

Farber  stopped  her  outside  the  door,  gripping  her  elbow.  “Sarah 
Lightburn.  What  are  you  doing  here?” 

Sarah  frowned  at  him  sullenly.  “What’s  your  problem?  Everyone  in 
God’s  creation  is  here.” 

Farber  relaxed  his  grip  and  gave  her  a sour  look.  “Hello  to  you  too. 
Glad  you  could  make  it,  Sarah.  I really  am.  I’m  hoping  you’ll  contribute 
some  ideas.” 

Sarah  jerked  her  arm  free.  “Seule  and  I made  progress,  whatever  you 
may  think.  Don’t  blame  me  for  what  went  on  after  she  left  me.” 

“And  don’t  you  be  defensive.  I think  you’re  more  prickly  now  than 
when  we  were  in  Colorado.” 


72 


SALLY  McBride 


“I’m  amazed  you  remember,”  said  Sarah  tightly.  “It’s  been  a while. 
And  prickles  are  a form  of  self-defense.” 

“Are  we  going  to  start  in  on  all  that  now?”  He  clamped  his  teeth 
together  and  stared  down  at  her,  then  stuffed  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  abruptly  turned  away.  When  he  turned  back  his  face  wore  a look  of 
apology.  “Look.  I was  twenty  years  older  than  you  then;  I still  am.  I liked 
you,  Sarah.  You  were  one  of  my  favorites,  one  of  the  really  good  ones. 
Grad  students  like  you  don’t  come  along  all  the  time.  I didn’t  mean 
an5rthing  more.” 

“Then  why — ” Seirah  stopped,  controlled  her  voice.  What  am  I doing'? 
Why  can’t  I let  it  go?  “Why  did  you  let  me  think  I was  special  to  you?” 

“You  were  special!” 

“You  know  what  I mean.  Did  you  kiss  me  because  my  work  bolstered 
up  yours?  Which  did  you  like  better,  the  curve  of  my  graph  or  the  curve 
of  my  breast?” 

“Damn.”  Farber’s  voice  was  soft.  He  ran  a hand  across  his  mouth. 
“Sarah,  what  do  you  want  me  to  say?  You  knew  the  score,  or  I thought 
you  did.  Beryl  was  on  assignment  in  China,  you  were  a beautiful  girl — ” 

“Jesus.”  Sarah  shook  her  head.  “You  were  everything  I wanted  to  he.” 
She  paused,  biting  her  lip.  “You  could  so  easily  have  taken  me  on  the 
assignment  with  Seule.  Why  didn’t  you?” 

“You  want  the  truth?  It  was  because,  damn  it,  I needed  a clear  head 
for  the  work.  Beryl  understood  that,  and  she  was  out  of  the  country  most 
of  the  time  anyway — truth,  remember?  We’d  battled  it  out.  But  you 
. . . you,  I couldn’t  afford  to  have  around.” 

“It  was  my  work  too!” 

“Don’t  kid  yourself,  Sarah.  I had  to  make  decisions  I didn’t  like,  but  I 
believe  it  was  worth  it.  Personalities  could  not  enter  the  situation.” 

Ssu'ah  sneered.  “Personality  was  everything,  can’t  you  see  that?” 

Seule’s  door  swung  open  and  a woman  bedecked  with  government 
insignia  put  her  head  out.  “Will  you  two  be  quiet,  please!  The  alien  is 
awake  in  here,  and  she  can  hear  you.” 

Sarah  flushed  red.  She  stepped  forward.  “I  have  access  to  the  alien, 
and  I’d  like  to  see  her  now.  If  it’s  all  right.”  Sarah  bit  her  lip  hard,  and 
kept  her  chin  up. 

“Let  me  check  your  badge.”  The  woman  ran  a sensor  across  Sarah’s 
clip-on  I.D.  “Yeah,  okay.”  She  eyed  Farber,  who  abruptly  turned  and 
stalked  off  down  the  corridor. 

Inside,  Sarah  noticed  Seule’s  smell.  She  remembered  finding  it  un- 
pleasant the  first  few  times  Seule  came  to  her  office;  now  it  seemed 
almost  to  soak  into  her.  It  was  unlike  anything  else  on  earth,  but  it  gave 
her  the  feeling  of  slipping  into  a sweater  borrowed  from  a friend.  The 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


73 


olfactory  image  was  wiped  out  by  the  sight  of  Seule  strapped  onto  her 
bed. 

She  couldn’t  turn  her  head;  it  was  restrained,  as  were  her  four  main 
limhs.  Only  the  soft,  relatively  feeble  appendages  on  her  neck  were  free 
to  move;  they  fluttered  and  waved  as  if  blown  by  a wind.  When  Seule 
felt  Sarah’s  eyes  on  her,  the  motion  stopped  and  the  tendrils  fell  to  lie 
across  her  high,  arched  chest.  Sarah  moved  closer  and  attempted  a smile, 
but  found  it  too  painful  an  exercise. 

“Oh,  Seule,”  she  said,  gently  touching  one  forelimb  on  an  area  not 
covered  by  bandages.  The  animals  Sarah  had  mostly  dealt  with  had  been 
those  dosed  with  intelligence-enhancing  drugs.  Some  had  responded  to 
touch,  most  hadn’t.  Heightened  mentation  seemed  also  to  sharpen  the 
sense  of  individuality;  the  animals — dogs,  apes,  cetaceans — were  often 
intractable. 

Seule  drew  her  lips  back  behind  the  muzzle  clamped  around  her  jaws 
in  what  Sarah  at  first  thought  was  a smile  of  welcome.  Feeling  a perverse 
satisfaction  in  the  intimacy  she,  and  not  Farber,  had  been  granted,  Sarah 
bent  over  the  softly  lit  bed. 

Seule  snarled,  a sound  like  a direct  assault.  Sarah  flinched  back  in  a 
primal  response  that  was  in  a split  second  replaced  with  anger.  Just  as 
quickly,  the  anger  was  veneered  in  professional  detachment,  but  it  was 
still  there. 

Seule  was  neither  animal  nor  human.  She  must  remember  that. 
“What’s  she  on?”  Sarah  asked,  addressing  the  woman  who  let  her  in.  The 
reply  listed  dosages  of  various  drugs  being  pumped  into  Seule,  which 
Sarah  recognized  as  standard  antibiotics  and  mild  sedatives. 

“Okay.  Thanks.” 

Sarah  turned  to  Seule,  wary  this  time  and  careful  to  keep  her  hands 
in  a nonthreatening  attitude. 

“Seule,  do  you  know  why  you’re  here?  Do  you  know  what  happened?” 

For  answer  there  was  a high  wailing  whine  that  issued  from  Seule’s 
throat;  very  doglike,  distressing  to  Sarah’s  ears.  It  went  on  and  on;  finally 
Sarah  nudged  the  bed,  moving  it  enough  to  make  Seule’s  eyes  flick  to 
the  side  and  register  her. 

Seule’s  black  lips  moved  behind  the  plastic  muzzle,  and  she  spoke.  Her 
whisper  was  soft,  spiritless;  the  keening  whine  still  echoed  in  Sarah’s 
ears.  “He  was  with  me  and  he  was  not  with  me.  He  was  my  friend  and 
he  was  my  enemy.  He  was  with  me.”  She  strained  her  limbs  against  the 
straps.  “He  was  not  with  me.” 

“You  were  working  with  Clay  and  his  team.  Everything  was  going 
well.  Seule,  whatever  happened,  for  whatever  reason,  it’s  over  now.” 

If  this  were  a human  friend  or  sister  who’d  suffered  a trauma,  thought 
Sarah,  I’d  know  what  to  do.  Hugs,  understanding  words;  more  hugs.  The 


74 


SALLY  MCBRIDE 


comfort  of  warm  primate  skin  against  skin.  But  I don’t  understand  her. 
She  isn’t  one  of  us.  Sareih  found  that  her  arms  were  tightly  crossed  over 
her  breasts.  Self-consciously  she  let  them  relax  to  her  sides. 

“He  wouldn’t  touch  me,”  whispered  Seule.  “We  were  alone  in  the  lab. 
He  was  so  beautiful,  so  soft. ...  I,  I thought ...  I held  him,  he  resisted.” 

“He  died.” 

“He  wouldn’t  touch  me.  None  of  you  will  touch  me!” 

Christ,  thought  Sarah.  She  ripped  his  guts  out  and  almost  tore  his 
head  from  his  body.  Is  that  love  to  her?  Thwarted  love,  frustrated  desire; 
a death  sentence  to  the  one  Seule  chooses? 

“I’ll  touch  you,  Seule.  I,  I’m  your  friend,  you  know.”  Tentatively  Sarah 
forced  her  hand  up,  stroked  Seule’s  forelimb  lying  strapped  on  the  white 
sheet.  Seule  turned  her  head  away  slightly  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  Sarah  felt  an  almost  irresistible  urge  to  flee  the  room.  The 
alien’s  life-blood  pulsed  under  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  life  hot  with  urges 
Sarah  had  imagined  only  in  her  darkest,  most  private  moments.  She 
snatched  her  hand  away,  stood  panting  in  a flush  of  heat  that  burned 
her  face.  Thankful  that  the  room  was  dimly  lit,  she  tried  to  gather  her 
thoughts.  But  before  she  could  speak,  Seule  sighed  and  shifted  her  limbs 
minutely,  all  that  was  allowed  by  the  restraints. 

“All  these  years  on  your  planet.  I thought  it  was  my  home,  I thought 
I was  one  of  you.  I listened  to  Walter  Farber  and  tried  to  please  him,  I 
made  friends  with  the  people  in  Houston.  And  the  men  who  discovered 
me — ” Here  she  paused,  and  her  black  tongue  tried  to  lick  some  moisture 
onto  her  lips.  “Those  men.  They  call  me,  send  me  letters  and  presents.  I 
suppose  I’m  a mascot,  a special  toy  to  them.  . . .” 

Sarah  caught  her  breath.  “Jim  Wright  is  here.  He’s  hanging  around 
trying  to  get  in  to  see  you.” 

Seule  turned  her  dry,  glittering  eyes  on  Sarah.  “Don’t  let  him  in,”  she 
whispered.  “I  couldn’t  stand  it.” 

Strangely,  it  was  the  lack  of  tears  that  disturbed  Sarah  the  most.  It 
had  always  disturbed  her.  No  need  for  her,  no  need  for  her  damned 
Kleenex.  Seule’s  appearance  disturbed  her,  Seule’s  intelligent  doglike 
way  of  moving  and  sitting  and  listening,  her  un-earth  smell.  Her  hot 
silvery  body. 

And  not  a tear  for  the  lonely  horror  of  her  life. 

“I  have  to  go.”  Sarah  backed  away  from  the  bed,  turned,  pushed 
through  the  door  to  the  white-lit  corridor.  Farber  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

She  ran  for  the  elevator.  During  the  interminable  wait  for  its  arrival, 
Sarah  saw  Jim  Wright,  fast  asleep  in  the  visitors’  lounge,  his  head  nod- 
ding, his  knees  up.  She  looked  away,  pushed  the  call  button  again  and 
again. 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


75 


Down,  alone  thank  God,  down  and  out  the  nearest  door  to  the  cold 
night  air.  The  freshness  of  melting  snow  piled  beside  the  walkways  was 
like  a balm  on  her  nerves;  she  headed  for  a bench  and  slumped  down  on 
it,  shivering,  yet  hot  with  the  feel  of  Seule  still  in  her  fingers. 

Sarah  bent  over  and  clutched  her  stomach,  squeezing  her  eyes  shut. 
She  breathed  slowly  and  deeply,  pulling  in  the  moist  freezing  air  which 
smelled  of  nothing,  not  even  the  damp  soil;  no  scent  of  alien  flesh  in  her 
nostrils.  She  dug  her  fingers  hard  into  her  abdomen. 

Oh,  god,  she  wondered  darkly,  have  I really  gone  so  long  without  a 
lover?  She  gasped  a little  at  the  pain  inside  her,  under  the  skin  and 
muscle;  it  was  like  the  bitter  distillation  of  anger  and  denial.  Poison. 

Cautiously  she  straightened  on  the  hard,  slatted  bench,  very  glad  she 
wasn’t  crying,  because  she  might  not  be  able  to  stop.  That  primal  long- 
ing— how  terribly  intense  it  was  . . . could  it  be  that  she  had  once  felt 
it  for  Walter?  She  had  forgotten  how  powerful  it  was,  how  lonely  and 
terrible.  . . . 

“No,”  she  whispered  aloud,  her  breath  puffing  in  the  cold.  “Walter  was 
a different  sort  of  pain  ...  a betrayal,  and  what  I just  felt,  up  there  with 
Seule.  . . .”  She  stopped,  confused.  What  had  she  felt?  It  had  been  electric, 
visceral;  unexpected  and  overwhelmingly  demanding.  Its  dregs  had  been 
vinegar.  She  shook  her  head,  trying  to  think. 

There  was  a shout  from  the  corner  of  the  building,  and  she  turned  to 
see  six  or  seven  newspeople,  armed  with  cameras  and  lights,  bearing 
down  on  her.  Rising  in  dismay  she  looked  in  vain  for  an  escape  and  was 
surrounded. 

“Are  you  a nurse?  A doctor?  Where  is  the  alien — where  is  Seule?” 

“How  bad  are  her  injuries?  Will  she  die?” 

One  of  them  checked  a fax  sheet  of  photos  and  called  out  her  name. 

“Leave  me  alone,”  cried  Sarah.  “I  don’t  know  anything.” 

“You’re  Sarah  Lightbum,  the  alien’s  psychiatrist — ” 

“I  am  nothing  of  the  sort!  I only  counseled  her,  briefly — ” A mistake. 
The  newsies  moved  in  closer  and  Sarah  was  forced  to  push  her  way  past 
them.  One  of  them  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  shouted  into  her  face. 
“Will  the  alien  be  destroyed  now?  She’s  a killer.” 

Sarah  stopped,  mouth  open.  “Destroyed?  Don’t  be  a fool — ” 

“Yes,”  screamed  someone  from  the  back  of  the  growing  crowd.  “She 
killed  one  human,  she’ll  kill  more!” 

“What  if  there  are  more  aliens  coming?” 

Sarah,  appalled,  felt  incongruous  laughter  well  up.  More  of  them! 
Seule  would  appreciate  the  irony  of  that. 

“Is  it  true  that  Clay  Elliot  was  her  lover?” 

“Leave  me  alone!”  Sarah  bolted  for  the  door.  Two  security  men,  at- 
tracted by  the  noise,  let  her  through  and  closed  the  thick  reinforced  glass 
doors  against  the  reporters. 


76 


SALLY  McBRIDE 


“Oh,  journal,  I’m  so  tired.  And  this  coffee  is  awful.  It  must  be  almost 
morning  by  now.” 

Sarah  looked  up  at  the  TV  suspended  in  a corner  of  the  hospital  cafete- 
ria. It  confirmed  her  predictions:  mobs  of  Seule  denouncers  harassing 
Seule  supporters.  By  now  the  whole  world  knew  what  had  happened. 
“I’m  here  at  the  center,”  whispered  Sareih,  “and  I’m  not  sure  I know 
anything  at  all.” 

Slumping  in  the  chair,  she  rubbed  her  eyes.  “Why?  Why  did  she  kill 
him?”  Blinking,  she  looked  up  and  stared  at  nothing.  “Will  we  ever  really 
know  why  she  does  an3rthing?  By  now,  her  life  among  us  may  have 
rendered  her  incapable  of  rational  behavior,  or  even  whatever  instinctive 
behavior  is  proper  for  her  race. 

“And  I really  thought  I was  getting  somewhere.  Damn  . . .” 

Sarah  sipped  her  coffee,  winced. 

“And  why  did  I run  away  from  her?  Was  it  the  feel  of  her  flesh  on 
mine?”  She  felt  her  face  heat  with  confusion,  with  shame.  “What  hap- 
pened up  there,  an3rway?  I,  I . . . journal,  I find  myself  having  a hard  time 
talking  about  this.” 

Sarah  Lightbum  stared  morosely  into  her  cup,  wondering  if  she  was 
losing  her  mind.  She  watched  her  hands  place  the  cup  neatly  in  front  of 
her  as  the  apex  of  a chevron  pattern  of  plastic  knife,  fork,  spoon,  and 
stir-stick.  'The  cafeteria  was  growing  crowded  and  noisy  with  talk  and 
the  clatter  of  dishes  as  the  day  shift  arrived. 

“I  can’t  deal  with  this  right  now,”  she  told  the  journal.  She  clicked  it 
shut  and  stowed  it  in  her  bag. 

Sarah  left  the  cafeteria  and  headed  for  the  elevators,  wondering  what 
kind  of  man  Cla3fton  Elliot  had  been.  She  stabbed  at  the  elevator  button. 
Had  Elliot  treated  Seule  like  an  intelligent  pet,  perhaps  expected  her  to 
get  the  coffee?  Or  was  he  kind,  thoughtful — just  a nice  guy  who  simply 
couldn’t  find  it  within  his  heart  to  love  someone  who  looked  like  a dog? 

The  elevator  door  opened  and  she  shuffled  tiredly  on,  not  noticing  until 
too  late  that  the  only  other  occupant  was  Farber. 

He  stood  his  ground,  smiled  remotely  as  she  reached  across  him  to 
push  the  button.  The  door  closed.  Farber  put  his  thumb  on  the  stop 
button. 

“I  don’t  want  you  to  go  up  to  Seule’s  room  just  now,  Ms.  Lightbum,” 
said  Farber  in  a flat  voice. 

Sarah  refrained  from  pointing  out  that  she  had  intended  only  to  get 
to  the  main  floor  and  out.  She  withdrew  her  arm,  hauled  her  heavy  bag 
higher  on  her  shoulder. 

“Fine.  We’ll  park  right  here  while  you'  tell  me  where  I should  go.” 
Sarah  wished  her  voice  matched  her  feelings.  She  hated  the  way  it  went 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


77 


high  and  girlish  in  a confrontation.  Typical  female,  Sarah  sneered  at 
herself.  “I’d  like  to  know  why  you’ve  chosen  to  blame  me.  What  about 
Elliot?  Is  anyone  looking  into  his  actions?  What  kind  of  background 
checks  did  you  do  on  him?” 

“That’s  not  what  I want  to  talk  about,  and  besides,  it’s  immaterial. 
You  encouraged  her  to  remain  in  contact  with  him.  She  went  off  with 
stars  in  her  eyes,  looking  for  romance.”  Farber  took  his  thumb  off  the 
button  and  the  elevator  started  upward,  called  from  somewhere  above. 

“And  what’s  wrong  with  romance?”  Sarah  snapped.  “What  was  wrong 
with  that  dumb  shit  Elliot?  She  loved  him.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
love.  Doctor  Farber?” 

“Sarah,  please.  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place — ” 

The  elevator  stopped  and  the  doors  slid  open  onto  the  sixth  floor. 
Farber,  tight-lipped,  motioned  for  Sarah  to  exit  ahead  of  him;  she  did, 
and  when  he  started  down  the  corridor  she  followed. 

“I  don’t  really  give  a damn  any  more,”  she  said.  “There  was  a time 
when  you  were  my  hero,  right  up  there  with  the  astronauts,  but  not  any 
more.  I’ve  wised  up.” 

Farber  reached  a door,  keyed  it  open  and  stood  to  one  side. 

“Well?”  he  said.  “Shall  we  continue  in  private,  or  do  you  prefer  to  rant 
out  here?” 

Sarah  stalked  in  and  threw  her  bag  on  the  floor  beside  a table  sur- 
rounded by  straight-backed  chairs.  It  was  some  sort  of  meeting  room, 
windowless  and  stale. 

Farber  yanked  out  a chair  and  dropped  into  it.  He  bent  over  and  rubbed 
his  temples.  After  a moment  Sarah  sat  too.  It  seemed  stupid  and  childish 
to  keep  standing.  Hadn’t  she  grown  up?  Wasn’t  it  impossible  for  this  man 
to  make  her  do  foolish  things  any  more? 

Farber  looked  up,  steepling  his  hands  under  his  chin.  It  was  a manner- 
ism Sarah  remembered  from  long  ago.  “I  did  try  to  keep  track  of  you  after 
I left,”  he  said.  “Not  all  my  time  was  spent  with  Seule.  You  distinguished 
yourself  at  Colorado,  did  a couple  of  years  with  Arthur  Kemp  before  he 
went  to  work  for  Biostym.  Then  you  disappeared  for  a while.  Let’s 
see  ...  I next  saw  you  in  Edmonton,  at  a lecture.  You  were  at  the  back.” 

Sarah  kept  her  eyes  on  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  unable  to  speak. 

“Believe  it  or  not,  it  pleased  me  to  see  you  again,  though  you  left  with 
someone  and  it  didn’t  seem  the  right  time  to  renew  old  acquaintances.  I 
thought  that  soon  I’d  meet  you  at  a conference,  laugh  over  old  times. 
You’d  be  married.  I’d  have  Beryl  with  me,  we’d  have  drinks.  Something.” 
He  looked  down  again.  Sarah  could  barely  keep  her  eyes  on  him,  her 
urge  to  run  was  so  strong. 

“Why  did  you  resist  my  counseling  Seule?” 

“I  didn’t.  When  your  name  came  across  my  desk  I thought  about  what 

78  SALLY  McBride 


might  happen,  but  then  I realized  that  it  might  be  a good  idea  to  have 
you  on  board.  I’m  still  not  sure  if  it  is,  all  things  considered.  Perhaps  I 
was  trying  to  make  up  for  the  past.  I do  know  that  there’s  obviously  a 
lot  still  to  learn  about  Seule.” 

He  sighed  deeply,  running  his  fingers  over  his  lips.  “When  she  was 
just  a baby.  I’d  visit  her  quarters  every  day,  and  every  day  she’d  come 
leaping  at  me  out  of  nowhere.  I always  caught  her.  It  was  a game  we 
played,  until  she  got  too  big.  I had  to  remind  her  over  and  over  to  keep 
her  claws  in,  to  be  gentle,  to  take  it  easy  on  us  humans.” 

He  looked  exhausted.  He  looked  like  an  old  man  coming  to  understand 
that  the  best  part  of  his  life  was  ending. 

In  her  mind’s  eye,  Sarah  saw  Farber  as  he’d  been  when  he  landed 
the  plum  assignment.  Suave,  dark-haired,  grinning  wolfishly,  he  had 
abandoned  everything  to  make  Seule  his  own.  He’d  been  with  her  from 
then  on,  in  every  newscast,  at  every  conference  and  study.  It’s  all  getting 
away  from  him  now,  she  thought.  We  get  old,  the  children  grow  up  and 
leave.  This  one  has  been  a heart-breaker,  but  then,  the  special  ones 
always  are. 

Sarah  looked  at  her  watch.  Eight  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  she  felt 
as  though  sleep  did  not  exist  any  more,  at  least  on  this  world.  Almost 
time  for  the  news  conference.  What  an  ordeal  that  was  going  to  be — she 
was  thankful  she  wouldn’t  have  to  be  there.  She  hoped  Farber  could 
handle  it. 

He  looked  up  at  her  finally.  His  eyes  were  unreadable.  The  eyes  show 
nothing,  Sarah  told  herself— it’s  the  lips,  the  brows,  the  tiny  muscle- 
pulls  that  tell  the  story.  Animals  can  show  their  emotions  if  they’re 
smart  enough,  if  they  have  anything  inside  to  show  . . . Farber  tipped  his 
chair  back  and  crossed  his  ankle  over  his  knee  in  a way  Sarah  instantly 
recognized. 

She  felt  her  thoughts  realign  themselves.  Had  it  really  been  Walter 
Farber  she  wanted?  Or  did  she  want  what  he  had,  what  he  was'?  Seule 
had  seduced  him  away,  and  all  Sarah’s  tears  and  anger  and  wanting  had 
never  gotten  him  back.  . . . Stupid  woman,  she  jeered  at  herself.  Daddy 
loved  her  more  than  me! 

And  if  he’d  taken  me  along  to  work  with  Seule,  how  long  would  I have 
been  content  to  be  in  their  exceptionally  thick  shadows? 

Sarah  had  a sudden  merciless  vision  of  herself,  an  imitation  of  him, 
hands  steepled  and  legs  crossed  in  just  his  way,  sagely  nodding  at  a 
distraught  client.  She  jammed  her  hands  between  her  knees  and  almost 
laughed  out  loud.  Hadn’t  that  been  a sort  of  apology  she’d  heard  a while 
back?  Something  about  making  up  for  the  past? 

Sarah  leaned  forward  and  stood,  stretching  her  shoulders  and  running 


THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


79 


her  fingers  through  her  hair.  She  grinned  suddenly.  “It  doesn’t  matter 
now.  I’m  okay.  Truce,  all  right?” 

Farber  stood  too,  looking  at  her  uncertainly.  He  turned  for  the  door, 
then  stopped  and  looked  back  at  her,  clearing  his  throat.  “Within  the 
next  few  days  you’ll  be  getting  a request  to  come  to  Houston.  I’d  like  you 
to  do  some  very  careful  thinking  before  you  make  a decision.” 

Sarah,  completely  surprised  and  not  knowing  what  to  say,  said 
nothing. 

‘"There’s  a lot  of  work  to  be  done,”  Farber  continued.  “I’m  not  sure  if 
we  can  treat  this  whole  episode  as  an  advance  or  a setback  in  our  knowl- 
edge of  Seule.  Whatever  the  verdict,  she’s  going  to  be  locked  away  for  a 
while.  No  way  around  it.  I’m  afraid.  It’s  hoped  you’ll  have  something  to 
contribute.” 

Farber  straightened  his  tie  briskly,  seeming  to  come  fully  awake  by 
the  sheer  power  of  will.  “They’re  broadcasting  soon  from  the  directors’ 
boardroom,”  he  said.  “I’d  better  get  myself  up  there.”  He  squinted  at  her 
speculatively.  “My  office  will  be  in  touch  with  you.” 

He  turned  and  put  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  then  looked  back  at  her 
as  if  he  was  going  to  say  something  else,  but  did  not.  He  left,  letting  the 
door  remain  open  behind  him. 

“Did  you  really  want  Clayton  Elliot  for  your  lover?”  asked  Sarah  softly, 
into  the  gently  beeping,  monitor-lit  dimness  of  Seule’s  hospital  room. 
There  was  a different  military  nurse  on  duty  now,  a man  who  kept  his 
eyes  on  her  carefully.  Sarah  ignored  him. 

“Or  did  you  want  him  to  love  you?  There’s  a difference,  you  know.  It 
has  to  do  with  possession.  It  gets  mistaken  for  love  so  often.  . . .”  She 
stepped  closer  to  the  bed. 

Seule’s  eyes  seemed  brighter  now.  The  look  in  them  of  lost  despair  had 
retreated  a bit,  and  she  turned  her  head  to  follow  as  Sarah  moved  up 
beside  her. 

“I  was  so  jealous  of  you.”  Sarah’s  voice  was  soft;  all  the  anger  had  left 
her.  “You  didn’t  know  Walter  and  I had  once  been  lovers,  did  you?  When 
you  came  along,  he  just  wasn’t  interested  in  me  any  more.  He  had  found 
something  so  absolutely  lovely  and  new  that  he  had  to  let  everything 
else  go.”  She  gazed  at  Seule  almost  kindly,  feeling  light  as  a husk  from 
which  a spoiled  seed  has  been  shaken. 

“I’ll  never  love  Walter  again,  or  even  really  like  him,  but  I can  admire 
him  for  what  he’s  done  with  you.  That’s  good  enough.” 

The  alien  moved  slightly  on  the  bed  under  her  restraints,  and  her  soft 
pink  tendrils  undulated  across  her  chest. 

“Clayton  Elliot  wanted  you  to  be  a piece  of  experimental  equipment 
conforming  to  his  thesis.  Walter  Farber  wanted  you  to  be  his  brilliant. 


80 


SALLY  MCBRIDE 


beautiful  little  girl.  And  I wanted  to  use  you  to  get  next  to  him,  to  show 
him  ...  to  show  that  I mattered.” 

“Sarah,”  croaked  Seule,  barely  audible. 

Sarah  backed  up  a little.  She  wasn’t  ready  to  risk  touching  Seule  again, 
not  yet. 

“Sarah.”  The  alien’s  eyes  were  on  her,  those  dark-silver,  tearless  eyes, 
and  Sarah  almost  stopped  breathing.  “Please.  I’m  sorry.  I’m  sorry  I let 
you  feel  what  I was  feeling.  I’m  ...  so  tired  of  being  human,  but  I don’t 
know  how  to  be  anything  else.” 

Sarah  bit  her  lip,  backing  off  still  farther.  She  retreated  to  the  window 
and  drew  aside  the  drapes  to  let  in  the  brightening  day.  “'They’re  asking 
me  to  come  to  Houston,”  she  said,  around  a lump  in  her  throat.  “Walter 
wants  me,  he  thinks  I can  be  useful.”  She  swallowed  carefully  and  turned 
back  to  the  bed.  “How  . . . how  about  you?  Do  you  want  me  there?” 

Sarah  forced  herself  to  look  unflinchingly  at  Seule. 

The  alien  reached  toward  Sarah  with  her  neck-tendrils,  something  she 
had  never  done  before;  she  had  never  touched  Sarah  unless  Sarah  initi- 
ated it.  In  fact  the  alien  had  deftly  avoided  contact  during  their  sessions. 

A moment  of  self-doubt,  of  struggle  against  the  urge  to  flee,  and  Sarah 
stepped  forward,  bracing  herself  for  whatever  might  flood  into  her. 

Almost,  she  didn’t  feel  the  first  moment  of  touch,  Seule’s  tendrils  were 
so  light  and  soft  and  tentative.  Like  a baby’s  fingers — warm,  slightly 
sticky,  full  of  innocent  life — they  gently  explored  the  lengths  of  Sarah’s 
fingers,  probed  between  them  into  the  soft  webs  of  flesh,  slid  across  the 
hard  nail  surfaces.  It  was,  to  Sarah,  so  intensely  sensual  that  she  could 
only  watch.  The  blood  pounding  in  her  ears  made  it  impossible  to  move 
or  react. 

Yes,  she  thought,  this  is  it — that  moment,  that  fragrance  sweet  and 
strong;  this  is  what  it  means. 

And  under  the  sweetness  was  a bitter  taste,  and  behind  the  new  light 
the  shadow  of  a permanent  darkness  that  could  never  pass;  Sarah  knew 
it.  There  were  no  miracles  to  offer,  only  friendship  to  ease  the  path. 

“Yes,  please  come  with  me,”  whispered  Seule.  • 


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THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  ORCHIDS 


81 


Greg  Egan 


Last  year,  tfie  author's  novel  Quarantine,  published  in  1 992  by  Random 
House  (UK),  won  Australia's  prestigious  Ditmar  award.  The  British  edition  of 
his  latest  novel.  Permutation  City,  has  just  been  released  by  Orion  under  their 

Millennium  imprint, 
art:  Janet  Aulisio 


¥m 


li 


r'r 


i ,1  , '1  .V 

I'l'M'ti 


The  explosion  shattered  windows  hundreds  of  meters  away,  but  started 
no  fire.  Later,  I discovered  that  it  had  shown  up  on  a seismograph  at 
Macquarie  University,  fixing  the  time  precisely:  3:52  a.m.  Residents  wo- 
ken by  the  blast  phoned  emergency  services  within  minutes,  and  our 
night  shift  operator  called  me  just  after  four,  but  there  was  no  point 
rushing  to  the  scene  when  I’d  only  be  in  the  way.  I sat  at  the  terminal 
in  my  study  for  almost  an  hour,  assembling  background  data  and  moni- 
toring the  radio  traffic  on  headphones,  drinking  coffee  and  trying  not  to 
type  too  loudly. 

By  the  time  I arrived,  the  local  fire  service  contractors  had  departed, 
having  certified  that  there  was  no  risk  of  further  explosions,  but  our 
forensic  people  were  still  poring  over  the  wreckage,  the  electric  hum  of 
their  equipment  all  but  drowned  out  by  birdsong.  Lane  Cove  was  a quiet, 
leafy  suburb,  mixed  residential  and  high-tech  industrial,  the  lush  vegeta- 
tion of  corporate  open  spaces  blending  almost  seamlessly  into  the  adja- 
cent national  park  that  straddled  the  Lane  Cove  River.  The  map  of  the 
area  on  my  car  terminal  had  identified  suppliers  of  laboratory  reagents 
and  pharmaceuticals,  manufacturers  of  precision  instruments  for  scien- 
tific and  aerospace  applications,  and  no  less  than  twenty-seven  biotech- 
nology firms — including  Life  Enhancement  International,  the  erstwhile 
sprawling  concrete  building  now  reduced  to  a collection  of  white  powdery 
blocks  clustered  around  twisted  reinforcement  rods.  The  exposed  steel 
glinted  in  the  early  light,  disconcertingly  pristine;  the  building  was  only 
three  years  old.  I could  understand  why  the  forensic  team  had  ruled  out 
an  accident  at  their  first  glance;  a few  drums  of  organic  solvent  could 
not  have  done  an5rthing  remotely  like  this.  Nothing  legally  stored  in  a 
residential  zone  could  reduce  a modem  building  to  rubble  in  a matter  of 
seconds. 

I spotted  Janet  Lansing  as  I left  my  car.  She  was  surveying  the  mins 
with  an  expression  of  stoicism,  but  she  was  hugging  herself  Mild  shock, 
probably.  She  had  no  other  reason  to  be  chilly;  it  had  been  stinking 
hot  all  night,  and  the  temperature  was  already  climbing.  Lansing  was 
Director  of  the  Lane  Cove  complex:  forty-three  years  old,  with  a Ph.D. 
in  molecular  biology  from  Cambridge,  and  an  M.B.A.  from  an  equally 
reputable  Japanese  virtual  university.  I’d  had  my  knowledge  miner  ex- 
tract her  details,  and  photo,  from  assorted  databases  before  I’d  left  home. 

I approached  her  and  said,  “James  Glass,  Nexus  Investigations.”  She 
frowned  at  my  business  card,  but  accepted  it,  then  glanced  at  the  techni- 
cians trawling  their  gas  chromatographs  and  holography  equipment 
around  the  perimeter  of  the  mins. 

“They’re  yours,  I suppose?” 

“Yes.  They’ve  been  here  since  four.” 


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She  smirked  slightly.  “What  happens  if  I give  the  job  to  someone  else? 
And  charge  the  lot  of  you  with  trespass?” 

“If  you  hire  another  company,  we’ll  be  happy  to  hand  over  all  the 
samples  and  data  we’ve  collected.” 

She  nodded  distractedly.  “I’ll  hire  you,  of  course.  Since  four?  I’m  im- 
pressed. You’ve  even  arrived  before  the  insurance  people.”  As  it  hap- 
pened, LEI’s  “insurance  people”  owned  49  percent  of  Nexus,  and  would 
stay  out  of  the  way  imtil  we  were  finished,  but  I didn’t  see  any  reason  to 
mention  that.  Lansing  added  sourly,  “Our  so-called  security  firm  only 
worked  up  the  courage  to  phone  me  half  an  hour  ago.  Evidently  a fiber- 
optic junction  box  was  sabotaged,  disconnecting  the  whole  area.  They’re 
supposed  to  send  in  patrols  in  the  event  of  equipment  failure,  but  appar- 
ently they  didn’t  bother.” 

I grimaced  sympathetically.  “What  exactly  were  you  people  making 
here?” 

“Making?  Nothing.  We  did  no  manufacturing;  this  was  pure  R & D.” 

In  fact.  I’d  already  established  that  LEI’s  factories  were  all  in  Thailand 
and  Indonesia,  with  the  head  office  in  Monaco,  and  research  facilities 
scattered  around  the  world.  There’s  a fine  line,  though,  between  demon- 
strating that  the  facts  are  at  your  fingertips,  and  unnerving  the  client. 
A total  stranger  ought  to  make  at  least  one  trivial  wrong  assumption, 
ask  at  least  one  misguided  question.  I always  do. 

“So  what  were  you  researching  and  developing?” 

‘That’s  commercially  sensitive  information.” 

I took  my  notepad  from  my  shirt  pocket  and  displayed  a standard 
contract,  complete  with  the  usual  secrecy  provisions.  She  glanced  at 
it,  then  had  her  own  computer  scrutinize  the  document.  Conversing  in 
modulated  infrared,  the  machines  rapidly  negotiated  the  fine  details.  My 
notepad  signed  the  agreement  electronically  on  my  behalf,  and  Lansing’s 
did  the  same,  then  they  both  chimed  happily  in  unison  to  let  us  know 
that  the  deal  had  been  concluded. 

Lansing  said,  “Our  main  project  here  was  engineering  improved  syn- 
cytiotrophoblastic  cells.”  I smiled  patiently,  and  she  translated  for  me. 
“Strengthening  the  barrier  between  the  maternal  and  fetal  blood  sup- 
plies. Mother  and  fetus  don’t  share  blood  directly,  but  they  exchange 
nutrients  and  hormones  across  the  placental  barrier.  The  trouble  is,  all 
kinds  of  viruses,  toxins,  pharmaceuticals  and  illicit  drugs  can  also  cross 
over.  The  natural  barrier  cells  didn’t  evolve  to  cope  with  AIDS,  fetal 
alcohol  syndrome,  cocaine-addicted  babies,  or  the  next  thalidomidelike 
disaster.  We’re  aiming  for  a single  intravenous  injection  of  a gene-tai- 
loring vector,  which  would  trigger  the  formation  of  an  extra  layer  of  cells 
in  the  appropriate  structures  within  the  placenta,  specifically  designed  to 
shield  the  fetal  blood  supply  from  contaminants  in  the  maternal  blood.” 


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“A  thicker  barrier?” 

“Smarter.  More  selective.  More  choosy  about  what  it  lets  through.  We 
know  exactly  what  the  developing  fetus  actually  needs  from  the  maternal 
blood.  These  gene-tailored  cells  would  contain  specific  channels  for  trans- 
porting each  of  those  substances.  Nothing  else  would  be  allowed 
through.” 

“Very  impressive.”  A cocoon  around  the  unborn  child,  shielding  it  from 
all  of  the  poisons  of  modern  society.  It  sounded  exactly  like  the  kind 
of  beneficent  technology  a company  called  Life  Enhancement  would  be 
hatching  in  leafy  Lane  Cove.  True,  even  a layman  could  spot  a few  flaws 
in  the  scheme.  I’d  heard  that  AIDS  most  often  infected  children  during 
birth  itself,  not  pregnancy — ^but  presumably  there  were  other  viruses 
that  crossed  the  placental  barrier  more  frequently.  I had  no  idea  whether 
or  not  mothers  at  risk  of  giving  birth  to  children  stunted  by  alcohol  or 
addicted  to  cocaine  were  likely  to  rush  out  en  masse  and  have  gene- 
tailored  fetal  barriers  installed — ^but  I could  picture  a strong  demand 
from  people  terrified  of  food  additives,  pesticides,  and  pollutants.  In  the 
long  term — if  the  system  actually  worked,  and  wasn’t  prohibitively  ex- 
pensive— it  could  even  become  a part  of  routine  prenatal  care. 

Beneficent,  and  lucrative. 

In  any  case — whether  or  not  there  were  biological,  economic,  and  social 
factors  which  might  keep  the  technology  from  being  a complete  suc- 
cess ...  it  was  hard  to  imagine  anyone  objecting  to  the  principle  of  the 
thing. 

I said,  “Were  you  working  with  animals?” 

Lansing  scowled.  “Only  early  calf  embryos,  and  disembodied  bovine 
uteruses  on  tissue-support  machines.  If  it  was  an  animal  rights  group, 
they  would  have  been  better  off  bombing  an  abattoir.” 

“Mmm.”  In  the  past  few  years,  the  Sydney  chapter  of  Animal  Equal- 
ity— ^the  only  group  known  to  use  such  extreme  methods — had  concen- 
trated on  primate  research  facilities.  They  might  have  changed  their 
focus,  or  been  misinformed,  but  LEI  still  seemed  like  an  odd  target;  there 
were  plenty  of  laboratories  widely  known  to  use  whole,  live  rats  and 
rabbits  as  if  they  were  disposable  test  tubes — many  of  them  quite  close 
by.  “What  about  competitors?” 

“No  one  else  is  pursuing  this  kind  of  product  line,  so  far  as  I know. 
There’s  no  race  being  run;  we’ve  already  obtained  individual  patents  for 
all  of  the  essential  components — the  membrane  channels,  the  transporter 
molecules — so  any  competitor  would  have  to  pay  us  license  fees,  re- 
gardless.” 

“What  if  someone  simply  wanted  to  damage  you,  financially?” 

“Then  they  should  have  bombed  one  of  the  factories  instead.  Cutting 


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off  our  cash  flow  would  have  been  the  best  way  to  hurt  us;  this  laboratory 
wasn’t  earning  a cent.” 

“Your  share  price  will  still  take  a dive,  won’t  it?  Nothing  makes  invest- 
ors nervous  quite  so  much  as  terrorism.” 

Lansing  agreed,  reluctantly.  “But  then,  whoever  took  advantage  of 
that  and  launched  a takeover  bid  would  suffer  the  same  taint,  them- 
selves. I don’t  deny  that  commercial  sabotage  takes  place  in  this  industry, 
now  and  then  . . . but  not  on  a level  as  crude  as  this.  Genetic  engineering 
is  a subtle  business.  Bombs  are  for  fanatics.” 

Perhaps.  But  who  would  be  fanatically  opposed  to  the  idea  of  shielding 
human  embryos  from  viruses  and  poisons?  Several  religious  sects  flatly 
rejected  any  kind  of  modification  to  human  biology  . . . but  the  ones  who 
employed  violence  were  far  more  likely  to  have  bombed  a manufacturer 
of  abortifacient  drugs  than  a laboratory  dedicated  to  the  task  of  safe- 
guarding the  unborn  child. 

Elaine  Chang,  head  of  the  forensic  team,  approached  us.  I introduced 
her  to  Lansing.  Elaine  said,  “It  was  a very  professional  job.  If  you’d  hired 
demolition  experts,  they  wouldn’t  have  done  a single  thing  differently. 
But  then,  they  probably  would  have  used  identical  software  to  compute 
the  timing  and  placement  of  the  charges.”  She  held  up  her  notepad,  and 
displayed  a stylized  reconstruction  of  the  building,  with  hypothetical 
explosive  charges  marked.  She  hit  a button  and  the  simulation  crumbled 
into  something  very  like  the  actual  mess  behind  us. 

She  continued,  “Most  reputable  manufacturers  these  days  imprint  ev- 
ery batch  of  explosives  with  a trace  element  signature,  which  remains 
in  the  residue.  We’ve  linked  the  charges  used  here  to  a batch  stolen  from 
a warehouse  in  Singapore  five  years  ago.” 

I added,  “Which  may  not  be  a great  help,  though,  I’m  afraid.  After 
five  years  on  the  black  market,  they  could  have  changed  hands  a dozen 
times.” 

Elaine  returned  to  her  equipment.  Lansing  was  beginning  to  look  a 
little  dazed.  I said,  “I’d  like  to  talk  to  you  again,  later — ^but  I am  going 
to  need  a list  of  your  employees,  past  and  present,  as  soon  as  possible.” 

She  nodded,  and  hit  a few  keys  on  her  notepad,  transferring  the  list  to 
mine.  She  said,  “Nothing’s  been  lost,  really.  We  had  off-site  backup  for 
all  of  our  data,  administrative  and  scientific.  And  we  have  frozen  samples 
of  most  of  the  cell  lines  we  were  working  on,  in  a vault  in  Milson’s  Point.” 

Commercial  data  backup  would  be  all  but  untouchable,  with  the  re- 
cords stored  in  a dozen  or  more  locations  scattered  around  the 
world — heavily  encrypted,  of  course.  Cell  lines  sounded  more  vulnerable. 
I said,  “You’d  better  let  the  vault’s  operators  know  what’s  happened.” 

“I’ve  already  done  that;  I phoned  them  on  my  way  here.”  She  gazed  at 
the  wreckage.  “The  insurance  company  will  pay  for  the  rebuilding.  In 


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six  months’  time,  we’ll  be  back  on  our  feet.  So  whoever  did  this  was 
wasting  their  time.  The  work  will  go  on.” 

I SEiid,  “Who  would  want  to  stop  it  in  the  first  place?” 

Lansing’s  faint  smirk  appeared  again,  and  I very  nearly  asked  her 
what  she  found  so  amusing.  But  people  often  act  incongruously  in  the 
face  of  disasters,  large  or  small;  nobody  had  died,  she  wasn’t  remotely 
hysterical,  but  it  would  have  been  strange  if  a setback  like  this  hadn’t 
knocked  her  slightly  out  of  kilter. 

She  said,  “You  tell  me.  That’s  your  job,  isn’t  it?” 

Martin  was  in  the  living  room  when  I arrived  home  that  evening. 
Working  on  his  costume  for  the  Mardi  Gras.  I couldn’t  imagine  what  it 
would  look  like  when  it  was  completed,  but  there  were  definitely  feathers 
involved.  Blue  feathers.  I did  my  best  to  appear  composed,  but  I could 
tell  from  his  expression  that  he’d  caught  an  involuntary  flicker  of  distaste 
on  my  face  as  he  looked  up.  We  kissed  anyway,  and  said  nothing  about 
it. 

Over  dinner,  though,  he  couldn’t  help  himself 

“Fortieth  anniversary  this  year,  James.  Sure  to  be  the  biggest  yet.  You 
could  at  least  come  and  watch.”  His  eyes  glinted;  he  enjoyed  needling 
me.  We’d  had  this  argument  five  years  running,  and  it  was  close  to 
becoming  a ritual  as  pointless  as  the  parade  itself 

I said  flatly,  “Why  would  I want  to  watch  ten  thousand  drag  queens 
ride  down  Oxford  Street,  blowing  kisses  to  the  tourists?” 

“Don’t  exaggerate.  There’ll  only  be  a thousand  men  in  drag,  at  most.” 

“Yeah,  the  rest  will  be  in  sequined  jockstraps.” 

“If  you  actually  came  and  watched,  you’d  discover  that  most  people’s 
imaginations  have  progressed  far  beyond  that.” 

I shook  my  head,  bemused.  “If  people’s  imaginations  had  progressed, 
there’d  be  no  Gay  and  Lesbian  Mardi  Gras  at  all.  It’s  a freak  show,  for 
people  who  want  to  live  in  a cultural  ghetto.  Forty  years  ago,  it  might 
have  been  . . . provocative.  Maybe  it  did  some  good,  back  then.  But  now? 
What’s  the  point?  There  are  no  laws  left  to  change,  there’s  no  politics 
left  to  address.  This  kind  of  thing  just  recycles  the  same  moronic  stereo- 
types, year  after  year.” 

Martin  said  smoothly,  “It’s  a public  reassertion  of  the  right  to  diverse 
sexuality.  Just  because  it’s  no  longer  a protest  march  as  well  as  a celebra- 
tion doesn’t  mean  it’s  irrelevant.  And  complaining  about  stereotypes  is 
like  . . . complaining  about  the  characters  in  a medieval  morality  play. 
The  costumes  are  code,  shorthand.  Give  the  great  unwashed  heterosexual 
masses  credit  for  some  intelligence;  they  don’t  watch  the  parade  and 
conclude  that  the  average  gay  man  spends  all  his  time  in  a gold  lam6 


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tutu.  People  aren’t  that  literal-minded.  They  all  learnt  semiotics  in  kin- 
dergarten, they  know  how  to  decode  the  message.” 

“I’m  sure  they  do.  But  it’s  still  the  wrong  message:  it  makes  exotic 
what  ought  to  be  mundane.  Okay,  people  have  the  right  to  dress  up  any 
way  they  like  and  march  down  Oxford  Street . . . but  it  means  absolutely 
nothing  to  me.” 

“I’m  not  asking  you  to  join  in — ” 

“Very  wise.” 

“ — ^but  if  one  hundred  thousand  straights  can  turn  up,  to  show  their 
support  for  the  gay  community,  why  can’t  you?” 

I said  wearily,  “Because  every  time  I hear  the  word  community,  I know 
I’m  being  manipulated.  If  there  is  such  a thing  as  the  gay  community, 
I’m  certainly  not  a part  of  it.  As  it  happens,  I don’t  want  to  spend  my  life 
watching  gay  and  lesbian  television  channels,  using  gay  and  lesbian 
news  systems  ...  or  going  to  gay  and  lesbian  street  parades.  It’s  all 
so  . . . proprietary.  You’d  think  there  was  a multinational  corporation 
who  had  the  franchise  rights  on  homosexuality.  And  if  you  don’t  market 
the  product  their  way,  you’re  some  kind  of  second-class,  inferior,  bootleg, 
unauthorized  queer.” 

Martin  cracked  up.  When  he  finally  stopped  laughing,  he  said,  “Go  on. 
I’m  waiting  for  you  to  get  to  the  part  where  you  say  you’re  no  more  proud 
of  being  gay  than  you  are  of  having  brown  eyes,  or  black  hair,  or  a 
birthmark  behind  your  left  knee.” 

I protested,  “That’s  true.  Why  should  I be  ‘proud’  of  something  I was 
bom  with?  I’m  not  proud,  or  ashamed.  I just  accept  it.  And  I don’t  have 
to  join  a parade  to  prove  that.” 

“So  you’d  rather  we  all  stayed  invisible?” 

“Invisible!  You’re  the  one  who  told  me  that  the  representation  rates 
in  movies  and  TV  last  year  were  close  to  the  true  demographics.  And  if 
you  hardly  even  notice  it  anymore  when  an  openly  gay  or  lesbian  politi- 
cian gets  elected,  that’s  because  it’s  no  longer  an  issue.  To  most  people, 
now,  it’s  about  as  significant  as  . . . being  left  or  right  handed.” 

Martin  seemed  to  find  this  suggestion  surreal.  “Are  you  trying  to  tell 
me  that  it’s  now  a non-subject?  That  the  inhabitants  of  this  planet  are 
now  absolutely  impartial  on  the  question  of  sexual  preference?  Your 
faith  is  touching — but . . .”  He  mimed  incredulity. 

I said,  “We’re  equal  before  the  law  with  any  heterosexual  couple,  aren’t 
we?  And  when  was  the  last  time  you  told  someone  you  were  gay  and 
they  so  much  as  blinked?  And  yes,  I know,  there  are  dozens  of  countries 
where  it’s  still  illegal — along  with  joining  the  wrong  political  parties,  or 
the  wrong  religions.  Parades  in  Oxford  Street  aren’t  going  to  change 
that.” 


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“People  are  still  bashed  in  this  city.  People  are  still  discriminated 
against.” 

“Yeah.  And  people  are  also  shot  dead  in  peak-hour  traffic  for  playing 
the  wrong  music  on  their  car  stereos,  or  denied  jobs  because  they  live  in 
the  wrong  suburbs.  I’m  not  talking  about  the  perfection  of  human  nature. 
I just  want  you  to  acknowledge  one  tiny  victory:  leaving  out  a few  psy- 
chotics,  and  a few  fundamentalist  bigots  . . . most  people  just  don’t  care.” 

Martin  said  ruefully,  “If  only  that  were  true!” 

The  argument  went  on  for  more  than  an  hour — ending  in  a stalemate, 
as  usual.  But  then,  neither  one  of  us  had  seriously  expected  to  change 
the  other’s  mind. 

I did  catch  myself  wondering  afterward,  though,  if  I really  believed  all 
of  my  own  optimistic  rhetoric.  About  as  significant  as  being  left  or  right 
handed?  Certainly,  that  was  the  line  taken  by  most  Western  politicians, 
academics,  essayists,  talk  show  hosts,  soap  opera  writers,  and  main- 
stream religious  leaders . . . but  the  same  people  had  been  espousing 
equally  high-minded  principles  of  racial  equality  for  decades,  and  the 
reality  still  hadn’t  entirely  caught  up  on  that  front.  I’d  suffered  very  little 
discrimination,  myself — ^by  the  time  I reached  high  school,  tolerance  was 
hip,  and  I’d  witnessed  a constant  stream  of  improvements  since 
then  . . . but  how  could  I ever  know  precisely  how  much  hidden  prejudice 
remained?  By  interrogating  my  own  straight  friends?  By  reading  the 
sociologists’  latest  attitude  surveys?  People  will  always  tell  you  what 
they  think  you  want  to  hear. 

Still,  it  hardly  seemed  to  matter.  Personally,  I could  get  by  without 
the  deep  and  sincere  approval  of  every  other  member  of  the  human  race. 
Martin  and  I were  lucky  enough  to  have  been  bom  into  a time  and  place 
where,  in  almost  every  tangible  respect,  we  were  treated  as  equal. 

What  more  could  anyone  hope  for? 

In  bed  that  night,  we  made  love  very  slowly,  at  first  just  kissing  and 
stroking  each  other’s  bodies  for  what  seemed  like  hours.  Neither  of  us 
spoke,  and  in  the  stupefying  heat  I lost  all  sense  of  belonging  to  any 
other  time,  any  other  reality.  Nothing  existed  but  the  two  of  us;  the  rest 
of  the  world,  the  rest  of  my  life,  went  spinning  away  into  the  darkness. 

The  investigation  moved  slowly.  I interviewed  every  current  member 
of  LEI’s  workforce,  then  started  on  the  long  list  of  past  employees.  I still 
believed  that  commercial  sabotage  was  the  most  likely  explanation  for 
such  a professional  job — ^but  blowing  up  the  opposition  is  a desperate 
measure;  a little  civilized  espionage  usually  comes  first.  I was  hoping 
that  someone  who’d  worked  for  LEI  might  have  been  approached  in  the 
past  and  offered  money  for  inside  information — and  if  I could  find  just  one 


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employee  who’d  turned  down  a bribe,  they  might  have  learnt  something 
useful  from  their  contact  with  the  presumed  rival. 

Although  the  Lane  Cove  facility  had  only  been  built  three  years  before, 
LEI  had  operated  a research  division  in  Sydney  for  twelve  years  before 
that,  in  North  Ryde,  not  far  away.  Many  of  the  ex-employees  from  that 
period  had  moved  interstate  or  overseas;  quite  a few  had  been  transferred 
to  LEI  divisions  in  other  countries.  Still,  almost  no  one  had  changed 
their  personal  phone  numbers,  so  I had  very  little  trouble  tracking  them 
down. 

The  exception  was  a biochemist  named  Catherine  Mendelsohn;  the 
number  listed  for  her  in  the  LEI  staff  records  had  been  canceled.  There 
were  seventeen  people  with  the  same  surname  and  initials  in  the  na- 
tional phone  directory;  none  admitted  to  being  Catherine  Alice  Mendel- 
sohn, and  none  looked  at  all  like  the  staff  photo  I had. 

Mendelsohn’s  address  in  the  Electoral  Roll,  an  apartment  in  Newtovm, 
matched  the  LEI  records — but  the  same  address  was  in  the  phone  direc- 
tory (and  Electoral  Roll)  for  Stanley  Goh,  a young  man  who  told  me  that 
he’d  never  met  Mendelsohn.  He’d  been  leasing  the  apartment  for  the 
past  eighteen  months. 

Credit  rating  databases  gave  the  same  out-of-date  address.  I couldn’t 
access  tax,  banking,  or  utilities  records  without  a warrant.  I had  my 
knowledge  miner  scan  the  death  notices,  but  there  was  no  match  there. 

Mendelsohn  had  worked  for  LEI  until  about  a year  before  the  move  to 
Lane  Cove.  She’d  been  part  of  a team  working  on  a gene-tailoring  system 
for  ameliorating  menstrual  side-effects,  and  although  the  Sydney  divi- 
sion had  always  specialized  in  gynecological  research,  for  some  reason 
the  project  was  about  to  be  moved  to  Texas.  I checked  the  industry 
publications;  apparently,  LEI  had  been  rearranging  all  of  its  operations 
at  the  time,  gathering  together  projects  from  around  the  globe  into  new 
multi-disciplinary  configurations,  in  accordance  with  the  latest  fashion- 
able theories  of  research  dynamics.  Mendelsohn  had  declined  the  trans- 
fer, and  had  been  retrenched. 

I dug  deeper.  The  staff  records  showed  that  Mendelsohn  had  been 
questioned  by  security  guards  after  being  found  on  the  North  Ryde  prem- 
ises late  at  night,  two  days  before  her  dismissal.  Workaholic  biotechnolo- 
gists aren’t  uncommon,  but  starting  the  day  at  two  in  the  morning  shows 
exceptional  dedication,  especially  when  the  company  has  just  tried  to 
shuffle  you  off  to  Amarillo.  Having  turned  down  the  transfer,  she  must 
have  known  what  was  in  store. 

Nothing  came  of  the  incident,  though.  And  even  if  Mendelsohn  had 
been  planning  some  minor  act  of  sabotage,  that  hardly  established  any 
connection  with  a bombing  four  years  later.  She  might  have  been  angry 
enough  to  leak  confidential  information  to  one  of  LEI’s  rivals  . . . but 


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whoever  had  bombed  the  Lane  Cove  laboratory  would  have  been  more 
interested  in  someone  who’d  worked  on  the  fetal  barrier  project  itself — a 
project  which  had  only  come  into  existence  a year  after  Mendelsohn  had 
been  sacked. 

I pressed  on  through  the  list.  Interviewing  the  ex-employees  was  frus- 
trating; almost  all  of  them  were  still  working  in  the  biotechnology  indus- 
try, and  they  would  have  been  an  ideal  group  to  poll  on  the  question  of 
who  would  benefit  most  from  LEI’s  misfortune — but  the  confidentiality 
agreement  I’d  signed  meant  that  I couldn’t  disclose  anything  about  the 
research  in  question — not  even  to  people  working  for  LEI’s  other  divi- 
sions. 

The  one  thing  which  I could  discuss  drew  a blank:  if  anyone  had  been 
offered  a bribe,  they  weren’t  talking  about  it — and  no  magistrate  was 
going  to  sign  a warrant  letting  me  loose  on  a fishing  expedition  through 
a hundred  and  seventeen  people’s  financial  records. 

Forensic  examination  of  the  ruins,  and  the  sabotaged  fiber-optic  ex- 
change, had  yielded  the  usual  catalogue  of  minutiae  which  might  eventu- 
ally turn  out  to  be  invaluable — ^but  none  of  it  was  going  to  conjure  up  a 
suspect  out  of  thin  air. 

Four  days  after  the  bombing— just  as  I found  myself  growing  desperate 
for  a fresh  angle  on  the  case — I had  a call  from  Janet  Lansing. 

The  backup  samples  of  the  project’s  gene-tailored  cell  lines  had  been 
destroyed. 

The  vault  in  Milson’s  Point  turned  out  to  be  directly  underneath  a 
section  of  the  Harbor  Bridge — built  right  into  the  foundations  on  the 
north  shore.  Lansing  hadn’t  arrived  yet,  but  the  head  of  security  for  the 
storage  company,  an  elderly  man  called  David  Asher,  showed  me  around. 
Inside,  the  traffic  was  barely  audible,  but  the  vibration  coming  through 
the  floor  felt  like  a constant  mild  earthquake.  'The  place  was  cavernous, 
dry  and  cool.  At  least  a hundred  cryogenic  freezers  were  laid  out  in  rows; 
heavily  clad  pipes  ran  between  them,  replenishing  their  liquid  nitrogen. 

Asher  was  understandably  morose,  but  cooperative.  Celluloid  movie 
film  had  been  archived  here,  he  explained,  before  everything  went  digi- 
tal; the  present  owners  specialized  in  biological  materials.  There  were 
no  guards  physically  assigned  to  the  vault,  but  the  surveillance  cameras 
and  alarm  systems  looked  impressive,  and  the  structure  itself  must  have 
been  close  to  impregnable. 

Lansing  had  phoned  the  storage  company.  Biofile,  on  the  morning  of 
the  bombing.  Asher  confirmed  that  he’d  sent  someone  down  from  their 
North  Sydney  office  to  check  the  freezer  in  question.  Nothing  was  miss- 
ing— ^but  he’d  promised  to  boost  security  measures  immediately.  Because 


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the  freezers  were  supposedly  tamper-proof,  and  individually  locked,  cli- 
ents were  normally  allowed  access  to  the  vault  at  their  convenience, 
monitored  by  the  surveillance  cameras,  but  otherwise  unsupervised. 
Asher  had  promised  Lansing  that,  henceforth,  nobody  would  enter  the 
building  without  a member  of  his  staff  to  accompany  them — and  he 
claimed  that  nobody  had  been  inside  since  the  day  of  the  bombing, 
anyway. 

When  two  LEI  technicians  had  arrived  that  morning  to  carry  out  an 
inventory,  they’d  found  the  expected  number  of  culture  flasks,  all  with 
the  correct  bar  code  labels,  all  tightly  sealed — ^but  the  appearance  of 
their  contents  was  subtly  wrong.  The  translucent  frozen  colloid  was  more 
opalescent  than  cloudy;  an  untrained  eye  might  never  have  noticed  the 
difference,  but  apparently  it  spoke  volumes  to  the  cognoscenti. 

The  technicians  had  taken  a number  of  the  flasks  away  for  analysis; 
LEI  were  working  out  of  temporary  premises,  a sub-leased  comer  of 
a paint  manufacturer’s  quality  control  lab.  Lansing  had  promised  me 
preliminary  test  results  by  the  time  we  met. 

Lansing  arrived,  and  unlocked  the  freezer.  With  gloved  hands,  she 
lifted  a flask  out  of  the  swirling  mist  and  held  it  up  for  me  to  inspect. 

She  said,  “We’ve  only  thawed  three  samples,  but  they  all  look  the 
same.  The  cells  have  been  tom  apart.” 

“How?”  The  flask  was  covered  with  such  heavy  condensation  that  I 
couldn’t  have  said  if  it  was  empty  or  full,  let  alone  cloudy  or  opalescent. 

“It  looks  like  radiation  damage.” 

My  skin  crawled.  I peered  into  the  depths  of  the  freezer;  all  I could 
make  out  were  the  tops  of  rows  of  identical  flasks — but  if  one  of  them  had 
been  spiked  with  a radioisotope  . . . 

Lansing  scowled.  “Relax.”  She  tapped  a small  electronic  badge  pinned 
to  her  lab  coat,  with  a dull  gray  face  like  a solar  cell:  a radiation  dosime- 
ter. “This  would  be  screaming  if  we  were  being  exposed  to  anjdihing 
significant.  Whatever  the  source  of  the  radiation  was,  it’s  no  longer  in 
here — and  it  hasn’t  left  the  walls  glowing.  Your  future  offspring  are 
safe.” 

I let  that  pass.  “You  think  all  the  samples  will  turn  out  to  be  mined? 
You  won’t  be  able  to  salvage  anything?” 

Lansing  was  stoical  as  ever.  “It  looks  that  way.  There  are  some  elabo- 
rate techniques  we  could  use,  to  try  to  repair  the  DNA — but  it  will 
probably  be  easier  to  synthesize  fresh  DNA  from  scratch,  and  re-intro- 
duce  it  into  unmodified  bovine  placental  cell  lines.  We  still  have  all  the 
sequence  data;  that’s  what  matters  in  the  end.” 

I pondered  the  freezer’s  locking  system,  the  surveillance  cameras.  “Are 
you  sure  that  the  source  was  inside  the  freezer?  Or  could  the  damage 
have  been  done  without  actually  breaking  in — right  through  the  walls?” 


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She  thought  it  over.  “Maybe.  There’s  not  much  metal  in  these  things; 
they’re  mostly  plastic  foam.  But  I’m  not  a radiation  physicist;  your  foren- 
sic people  will  probably  be  able  to  give  you  a.  better  idea  of  what  hap- 
pened, once  they’ve  checked  out  the  freezer  itself.  If  there’s  damage  to 
the  polymers  in  the  foam,  it  might  be  possible  to  use  that  to  reconstruct 
the  geometry  of  the  radiation  field.” 

A forensic  team  was  on  its  way.  I said,  “How  would  they  have  done  it? 
Walked  casually  by,  and  just — ?” 

“Hardly.  A source  which  could  do  this  in  one  quick  hit  would  have 
been  unmanageable.  It’s  far  more  likely  to  have  been  a matter  of  weeks, 
or  months,  of  low-level  exposure.” 

“So  they  must  have  smuggled  some  kind  of  device  into  their  own 
freezer,  and  aimed  it  at  yours?  But  then  . . . we’ll  be  able  to  trace  the 
effects  right  back  to  the  source,  won’t  we?  So  how  could  they  have  hoped 
to  get  away  with  it?” 

Lansing  said,  “It’s  even  simpler  than  that.  We’re  talking  about  a mod- 
est amount  of  a gamma-emitting  isotope,  not  some  billion-dollar  particle- 
beam  weapon.  'The  effective  range  would  be  a couple  of  meters,  at  most. 
If  it  was  done  from  the  outside,  you’ve  just  narrowed  down  your  suspect 
list  to  two.”  She  thumped  the  freezer’s  left  neighbor  in  the  aisle,  then 
did  the  same  to  the  one  on  the  right — and  said,  “Aha.” 

“What?” 

She  thumped  them  both  again.  The  second  one  sounded  hollow.  I said, 
“No  liquid  nitrogen?  It’s  not  in  use?” 

Lansing  nodded.  She  reached  for  the  handle. 

Asher  said,  “I  don’t  think — ” 

The  freezer  was  unlocked,  the  lid  swung  open  easily.  Lansing’s  badge 
started  beeping — and,  worse,  there  was  something  in  there,  with  batteries 
and  wires.  . . . 

I don’t  know  what  kept  me  from  knocking  her  to  the  floor — but  Lan- 
sing, untroubled,  lifted  the  lid  all  the  way.  She  said  mildly,  “Don’t  panic; 
this  dose  rate’s  nothing.  'Threshold  of  detectable.” 

The  thing  inside  looked  superficially  like  a home-made  bomb — but  the 
batteries  and  timer  chip  I’d  glimpsed  were  wired  to  a heavy-duty  sole- 
noid, which  was  part  of  an  elaborate  shutter  mechanism  on  one  side  of 
a large,  metallic  gray  box. 

Lansing  said,  “Cannibalized  medical  source,  probably.  You  know  these 
things  have  turned  up  in  garbage  dumps'?”  She  unpinned  her  badge  and 
waved  it  near  the  box;  the  pitch  of  the  alarm  increased,  but  only  slightly. 
“Shielding  seems  to  be  intact.” 

I said,  as  calmly  as  possible,  “These  people  have  access  to  high  explo- 
sives. You  don’t  have  any  idea  what  the  fuck  might  be  in  there,  or  what 


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it’s  wired  up  to  do.  This  is  the  point  where  we  walk  out,  quietly,  and 
leave  it  to  the  bomb-disposal  robots.” 

She  seemed  about  to  protest,  but  then  she  nodded  contritely.  The  three 
of  us  went  up  onto  the  street,  and  Asher  called  the  local  terrorist  services 
contractor.  I suddenly  realized  that  they’d  have  to  divert  all  traffic  from 
the  bridge.  The  Lane  Cove  bombing  had  received  some  perfunctory  media 
coverage — but  this  would  lead  the  evening  news. 

I took  Lansing  aside.  “They’ve  destroyed  your  laboratory.  They’ve 
wiped  out  your  cell  lines.  Your  data  may  be  almost  impossible  to  locate 
and  corrupt — so  the  next  logical  target  is  you  and  your  employees.  Nexus 
doesn’t  provide  protective  services,  but  I can  recommend  a good  firm.” 

I gave  her  the  phone  niunber;  she  accepted  it  with  appropriate  solem- 
nity. “So  you  finally  believe  me?  These  people  aren’t  commercial  sabo- 
teurs. They’re  dangerous  fanatics.” 

I was  growing  impatient  with  her  vague  references  to  “fanatics.”  “Who 
exactly  do  you  have  in  mind?” 

She  said  darkly,  “We’re  tampering  with  certain  . . . natural  processes. 
You  can  draw  your  own  conclusions,  can’t  you?” 

'There  was  no  logic  to  that  at  all.  God’s  Image  would  probably  want  to 
force  all  pregnant  women  with  HIV  infections,  or  drug  habits,  to  use  the 
cocoon;  they  wouldn’t  try  to  bomb  the  technology  out  of  existence.  Gaia’s 
Soldiers  were  more  concerned  with  genetically  engineered  crops  and 
bacteria  than  trivial  modifications  to  insignificant  species  like  hu- 
mans— and  they  wouldn’t  have  used  radioisotopes  if  the  fate  of  the  planet 
depended  on  it.  Lansing  was  beginning  to  sound  thoroughly  para- 
noid— although  in  the  circumstances,  I couldn’t  really  blame  her. 

I said,  “I’m  not  drawing  any  conclusions.  I’m  just  advising  you  to  take 
some  sensible  precautions,  because  we  have  no  way  of  knowing  how  far 
this  might  escalate.  But . . . Biofile  must  lease  freezer  space  to  every  one 
of  your  competitors.  A commercial  rival  would  have  found  it  a thousand 
times  easier  than  any  hypothetical  sect  member  to  get  into  the  vault  to 
plant  that  thing.” 

A gray  armor-plated  van  screeched  to  a halt  in  front  of  us;  the  back 
door  swung  up,  ramps  slid  down,  and  a squat,  multi-limbed  robot  on 
treads  descended.  I raised  a hand  in  greeting  and  the  robot  did  the  same; 
the  operator  was  a friend  of  mine. 

Lansing  said,  “You  may  be  right.  But  then,  there’s  nothing  to  stop  a 
terrorist  from  having  a day  job  in  biotechnology,  is  there?” 

'The  device  turned  out  not  to  be  booby-trapped  at  all— just  rigged  to 
spray  LEI’s  precious  cells  with  gamma  rays  for  six  hours,  starting  at 
midnight,  every  night.  Even  in  the  unlikely  event  that  someone  had 
come  into  the  vault  in  the  early  hours  and  wedged  themselves  into  the 


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narrow  gap  between  the  freezers,  the  dose  they  received  would  not  have 
been  much;  as  Lansing  had  suggested,  it  was  the  cumulative  effect  over 
months  which  had  done  the  damage.  The  radioisotope  in  the  box  was 
cobalt  60,  almost  certainly  a decomissioned  medical  source — grown  too 
weak  for  its  original  use,  but  still  too  hot  to  be  discarded — stolen  from  a 
“cooling  off”  site.  No  such  theft  had  been  reported,  but  Elaine  Chang’s 
assistants  were  phoning  around  the  hospitals,  trying  to  persuade  them 
to  re-inventory  their  concrete  bunkers. 

Cobalt  60  was  dangerous  stuff— but  fifty  milligrams  in  a carefully 
shielded  container  wasn’t  exactly  a tactical  nuclear  weapon.  'The  news 
systems  went  berserk,  though:  ATOMIC  TERRORISTS  STRIKE  HAR- 
BOR BRIDGE,  et  cetera.  If  LEI’s  enemies  were  activists,  with  some 
“moral  cause”  which  they  hoped  to  set  before  the  public,  they  clearly  had 
the  worst  PR  advisers  in  the  business.  Their  prospects  of  gaining  the 
slightest  sympathy  had  vanished,  the  instant  the  first  news  reports  had 
mentioned  the  word  radiation. 

My  secretarial  software  issued  polite  statements  of  “No  comment”  on 
my  behalf,  but  camera  crews  began  hovering  outside  my  front  door,  so  I 
relented  and  mouthed  a few  news-speak  sentences  for  them  which  meant 
essentially  the  same  thing.  Martin  looked  on,  amused — and  then  I looked 
on,  astonished,  as  Janet  Lansing’s  own  doorstop  media  conference  ap- 
peared on  TV. 

“These  people  are  clearly  ruthless.  Human  life,  the  environment,  ra- 
dioactive contamination  ...  all  mean  nothing  to  them.” 

“Do  you  have  any  idea  who  might  be  responsible  for  this  outrage.  Dr. 
Lansing?” 

“I  can’t  disclose  that,  yet.  All  I can  reveal,  right  now,  is  that  our 
research  is  at  the  very  cutting  edge  of  preventative  medicine — and  I’m 
not  at  all  surprised  that  there  are  powerful  vested  interests  working 
against  us.” 

Powerful  vested  interests?  What  was  that  meant  to  be  code  for — if  not 
the  rival  biotechnology  firm  whose  involvement  she  kept  denying?  No 
doubt  she  had  her  eye  on  the  publicity  advantages  of  being  the  victim  of 
ATOMIC  TERRORISTS — ^but  I thought  she  was  wasting  her  breath.  In 
two  or  more  years’  time,  when  the  product  finally  hit  the  market,  the 
story  would  be  long  forgotten. 

After  some  tricky  jurisdictional  negotiations,  Asher  finally  sent  me  six 
months’  worth  of  files  from  the  vault’s  surveillance  cameras — all  that 
they  kept.  The  freezer  in  question  had  been  unused  for  almost  two  years; 
the  last  authorized  tenant  was  a small  FVF  clinic  which  had  gone  bank- 
rupt. Only  about  60  percent  of  the  freezers  were  currently  leased,  so  it 


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wasn’t  particularly  surprising  that  LEI  had  had  a conveniently  empty 
neighbor. 

I ran  the  surveillance  files  through  image-processing  software,  in  the 
hope  that  someone  might  have  been  caught  in  the  act  of  opening  the 
unused  freezer.  The  search  took  almost  an  hour  of  supercomputer 
time — and  turned  up  precisely  nothing.  A few  minutes  later,  Elaine 
Chang  popped  her  head  into  my  office  to  say  that  she’d  finished  her 
analysis  of  the  damage  to  the  freezer  walls:  the  nightly  irradiation  had 
been  going  on  for  between  eight  and  nine  months. 

Undeterred,  I scanned  the  files  again,  this  time  instructing  the  soft- 
ware to  assemble  a gallery  of  every  individual  sighted  inside  the  vault. 

Sixty-two  faces  emerged.  I put  company  names  to  all  of  them,  matching 
the  times  of  each  sighting  to  Biofile’s  records  of  the  use  of  each  client’s 
electronic  key.  No  obvious  inconsistencies  showed  up;  nobody  had  been 
seen  inside  who  hadn’t  used  an  authorized  key  to  gain  access — and  the 
same  people  had  used  the  same  keys,  again  and  again. 

I flicked  through  the  gallery,  wondering  what  to  do  next.  Search  for 
anyone  glancing  slyly  in  the  direction  of  the  radioactive  freezer'?  The  soft- 
ware could  have  done  it — but  I wasn’t  quite  ready  for  barrel-scraping 
efforts  like  that. 

I came  to  a face  which  looked  familieir:  a blonde  woman  in  her  mid- 
thirties, who’d  used  the  key  belonging  to  Federation  Centennial  Hospi- 
tal’s Oncology  Research  Unit,  three  times.  I was  certain  that  I knew  her, 
but  I couldn’t  recall  where  I’d  seen  her  before.  It  didn’t  matter;  after  a 
few  seconds’  searching,  I found  a clear  shot  of  the  name  badge  pinned  to 
her  lab  coat.  All  I had  to  do  was  zoom  in. 

The  badge  read:  C.  MENDELSOHN. 

There  was  a knock  on  my  open  door.  I turned  from  the  screen;  Elaine 
was  back,  looking  pleased  with  herself. 

She  said,  “We’ve  finally  found  a place  who’ll  own  up  to  having  lost 
some  cobalt  60.  What’s  more  . . . the  activity  of  our  source  fits  their  miss- 
ing item’s  decay  curve,  exactly.” 

“So  where  was  it  stolen  from?” 

“Federation  Centennial.” 

I phoned  the  Oncology  Research  Unit.  Yes,  Catherine  Mendelsohn 
worked  there — she’d  done  so  for  almost  four  years — ^but  they  couldn’t  put 
me  through  to  her;  she’d  been  on  sick  leave  all  week.  They  gave  me 
the  same  canceled  phone  number  as  LEI — but  a different  address,  an 
apartment  in  Petersham.  The  address  wasn’t  listed  in  the  phone  direc- 
tory; I’d  have  to  go  there  in  person. 

A cancer  research  team  would  have  no  reason  to  want  to  harm  LEI, 
but  a commercial  rival — with  or  without  their  own  key  to  the  vault 


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— could  still  have  paid  Mendelsohn  to  do  their  work  for  them.  It  seemed 
like  a lousy  deal  to  me,  whatever  they’d  offered  her — if  she  was  convicted, 
every  last  cent  would  be  traced  and  confiscated — but  bitterness  over  her 
sacking  might  have  clouded  her  judgment. 

Maybe.  Or  maybe  that  was  all  too  glib. 

I replayed  the  shots  of  Mendelsohn  taken  by  the  surveillance  cameras. 
She  did  nothing  unusual,  nothing  suspicious.  She  went  straight  to  the 
ORU’s  freezer,  put  in  whatever  samples  she’d  brought,  and  departed.  She 
didn’t  glance  slyly  in  any  direction  at  all. 

The  fact  that  she  had  been  inside  the  vault — on  legitimate  busi- 
ness— proved  nothing.  The  fact  that  the  cobalt  60  had  been  stolen  from 
the  hospital  where  she  worked  could  have  been  pure  coincidence. 

And  anyone  had  the  right  to  cancel  their  phone  service. 

I pictured  the  steel  reinforcement  rods  of  the  Lane  Cove  laboratory, 
glinting  in  the  sunlight. 

On  the  way  out,  reluctantly,  I took  a detour  to  the  basement.  I sat  at 
a console  while  the  armaments  safe  checked  my  fingerprints,  took  breath 
samples  and  a retinal  blood  spectrogram,  ran  some  perception-and-judg- 
ment  response  time  tests,  then  quizzed  me  for  five  minutes  about  the 
case.  Once  it  was  satisfied  with  my  reflexes,  my  motives,  and  my  state 
of  mind,  it  issued  me  a nine-millimeter  pistol  and  a shoulder  holster. 

Mendelsohn’s  apartment  block  was  a concrete  box  from  the  1960s,  front 
doors  opening  onto  long  shared  balconies,  no  security  at  all.  I arrived  just 
after  seven,  to  the  smell  of  cooking  and  the  sound  of  game  show  applause, 
wafting  from  a hundred  open  windows.  The  concrete  still  shimmered 
with  the  day’s  heat;  three  flights  of  stairs  left  me  coated  in  sweat.  Mendel- 
sohn’s apartment  was  silent,  but  the  lights  were  on. 

She  answered  the  door.  I introduced  myself,  and  showed  her  my  ID. 
She  seemed  nervous,  but  not  surprised. 

She  said,  “I  still  find  it  galling  to  have  to  deal  with  people  like  you.” 

“People  like—?” 

“I  was  opposed  to  privatizing  the  police  force.  I helped  organize  some 
of  the  marches.” 

She  would  have  been  fourteen  years  old  at  the  time — a precocious 
political  activist. 

She  let  me  in,  begrudgingly.  The  living  room  was  modestly  furnished, 
with  a terminal  on  a desk  in  one  corner. 

I said,  “I’m  investigating  the  bombing  of  Life  Enhancement  Interna- 
tional. You  used  to  work  for  them,  up  until  about  four  years  ago.  Is  that 
correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can  you  tell  me  why  you  left?” 


98 


GREG  EGAN 


She  repeated  what  I knew  about  the  transfer  of  her  project  to  the 
Amarillo  division.  She  answered  every  question  directly,  looking  me 
straight  in  the  eye;  she  still  appeared  nervous,  but  she  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  read  some  vital  piece  of  information  from  my  demeanor.  Won- 
dering if  I’d  traced  the  cobalt? 

“What  were  you  doing  on  the  North  Ryde  premises  at  two  in  the 
morning,  two  days  before  you  were  sacked?” 

She  said,  “I  wanted  to  find  out  what  LEI  was  planning  for  the  new 
building.  I wanted  to  know  why  they  didn’t  want  me  to  stick  around.” 

“Your  job  was  moved  to  Texas.” 

She  laughed  drily.  “The  work  wasn’t  that  specialized.  I could  have 
swapped  jobs  with  someone  who  wanted  to  travel  to  the  States.  It  would 
have  been  the  perfect  solution — and  there  would  have  been  plenty  of 
people  more  than  happy  to  trade  places  with  me.  But  no,  that  wasn’t 
allowed.” 

“So  . . . did  you  find  the  answer?” 

“Not  that  night.  But  later,  yes.” 

I said  carefully,  “So  you  knew  what  LEI  was  doing  in  Lane  Cove?” 

“Yes.” 

“How  did  you  discover  that?” 

“I  kept  an  ear  to  the  ground.  Nobody  who’d  stayed  on  would  have  told 
me  directly,  but  word  leaked  out,  eventually.  About  a year  ago.” 

“Three  years  after  you’d  left?  Why  were  you  still  interested?  Did  you 
think  there  was  a market  for  the  information?” 

She  said,  “Put  your  notepad  in  the  bathroom  sink  and  run  the  tap  on 
it.” 

I hesitated,  then  complied.  When  I returned  to  the  living  room,  she 
had  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  looked  up  at  me  grimly. 

“Why  was  I still  interested?  Because  I wanted  to  know  why  every  project 
with  any  lesbian  or  gay  team  members  was  being  transferred  out  of  the 
division.  I wanted  to  know  if  that  was  pure  coincidence.  Or  not.” 

I felt  a sudden  chill  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  I said,  “If  you  had  some 
problem  with  discrimination,  there  are  avenues  you  could  have — ” 

Mendelsohn  shook  her  head  impatiently.  “LEI  was  never  discrimina- 
tory. They  didn’t  sack  anyone  who  was  willing  to  move — and  they  always 
transferred  the  entire  team;  there  was  nothing  so  crude  as  picking  out 
individuals  by  sexual  preference.  And  they  had  a rationalization  for 
everything:  projects  were  being  re-grouped  between  divisions  to  facilitate 
‘synergistic  cross-pollination.’  And  if  that  sounds  like  pretentious  bull- 
shit, it  was — but  it  was  plausible  pretentious  bullshit.  Other  corporations 
have  adopted  far  more  ridiculous  schemes,  in  perfect  sincerity.” 

“But  if  it  wasn’t  a matter  of  discrimination  . . . why  should  LEI  want 
to  force  people  out  of  one  particular  division — ?” 


COCOON 


99 


I think  I’d  finally  guessed  the  answer,  even  as  I said  those  words — but 
I needed  to  hear  her  spell  it  out,  before  I could  really  believe  it. 

Mendelsohn  must  have  been  practicing  her  version  for  non-biochem- 
ists; she  had  it  down  pat.  “When  people  are  subject  to  stress — ^physical  or 
emotional — ^the  levels  of  certain  substances  in  the  bloodstream  increase. 
Cortisol  and  adrenaline,  mainly.  Adrenaline  has  a rapid,  short-term  ef- 
fect on  the  nervous  system.  Cortisol  works  on  a much  longer  time  frame, 
modulating  all  kinds  of  bodily  processes,  adapting  them  for  hard  times: 
injury,  fatigue,  whatever.  If  the  stress  is  prolonged,  someone’s  cortisol 
can  be  elevated  for  days,  or  weeks,  or  months. 

“High  enough  levels  of  cortisol,  in  the  bloodstream  of  a pregnant 
woman,  can  cross  the  placental  barrier  and  interact  with  the  hormonal 
system  of  the  developing  fetus.  'There  are  parts  of  the  brain  where  embry- 
onic development  is  switched  into  one  of  two  possible  pathways,  by  hor- 
mones released  by  the  fetal  testes  or  ovaries.  The  parts  of  the  brain 
which  control  body  image,  and  the  parts  which  control  sexual  preference. 
Female  embryos  usually  develop  a brain  wired  with  a self-image  of  a 
female  body,  eind  the  strongest  potential  for  sexual  attraction  toward 
males.  Male  embryos,  vice  versa.  And  it’s  the  sex  hormones  in  the  fetal 
bloodstream  which  let  the  growing  neurons  know  the  gender  of  the  em- 
bryo, and  which  wiring  pattern  to  adopt. 

“Cortisol  can  interfere  with  this  process.  The  precise  interactions  are 
complex,  but  the  ultimate  effect  depends  on  the  timing;  different  parts 
of  the  brain  are  switched  into  gender-specific  versions  at  different  stages 
of  development.  So  stress  at  different  times  diuring  pregnancy  leads  to 
different  patterns  of  sexual  preference  and  body  image  in  the  child:  homo- 
sexual, bisexual,  transsexual. 

“Obviously,  a lot  depends  on  the  mother’s  biochemistry.  Pregnancy 
itself  is  stressful — but  everyone  responds  to  that  differently.  The  first 
sign  that  cortisol  might  have  an  effect  came  in  studies  in  the  1980s,  on 
the  children  of  German  women  who’d  been  pregnant  during  the  most 
intense  bombing  raids  of  World  War  II — when  the  stress  was  so  great 
that  the  effect  showed  through  despite  individual  differences.  In  the 
nineties,  researchers  thought  they’d  found  a gene  which  determined  male 
homosexuality  . . . but  it  was  always  maternally  inherited — and  it 
turned  out  to  be  influencing  the  mother’s  stress  response,  rather  than 
acting  directly  on  the  child. 

“If  maternal  cortisol,  and  other  stress  hormones,  were  kept  from  reach- 
ing the  fetus  . . . then  the  gender  of  the  brain  would  always  match  the 
gender  of  the  body  in  every  respect.  All  of  the  present  variation  would 
be  wiped  out.’’ 

I was  shaken,  but  I don’t  think  I let  it  show.  Everything  she  said  rang 
true;  I didn’t  doubt  a word  of  it.  I’d  always  known  that  sexual  preference 


100 


GREG  EGAN 


was  decided  before  birth.  I’d  known  that  I was  gay,  myself,  by  the  age  of 
seven.  I’d  never  sought  out  the  elaborate  biological  details,  though — ^be- 
cause I’d  never  believed  that  the  tedious  mechanics  of  the  process  could 
ever  matter  to  me.  What  turned  my  blood  to  ice  was  not  finally  learning 
the  neuroembryology  of  desire.  The  shock  was  discovering  that  LEI 
planned  to  reach  into  the  womb  and  take  control  of  it. 

I pressed  on  with  the  questioning  in  a kind  of  trance,  putting  my  own 
feelings  into  suspended  animation. 

I said,  “LEI’s  barrier  is  for  filtering  out  viruses  and  toxins.  You’re 
talking  about  a natural  substance  which  has  been  present  for  millions 
of  years — ” 

“LEI’s  barrier  will  keep  out  everything  they  deem  non-essential.  The 
fetus  doesn’t  need  maternal  cortisol  in  order  to  survive.  If  LEI  doesn’t 
explicitly  include  transporters  for  it,  it  won’t  get  through.  And  I’ll  give 
you  one  guess  what  their  plans  are.” 

I said,  “You’re  being  paranoid.  You  think  LEI  would  invest  millions  of 
dollars  just  to  take  part  in  a conspiracy  to  rid  the  world  of  homosexuals?” 

Mendelsohn  looked  at  me  pityingly.  “It’s  not  a conspiracy.  It’s  a market- 
ing opportunity.  LEI  doesn’t  give  a shit  about  the  sexual  politics.  They 
could  put  in  cortisol  transporters,  and  sell  the  barrier  as  an  anti-viral, 
anti-drug,  anti-pollution  screen.  Or,  they  could  leave  them  out,  and  sell 
it  as  all  of  that — plus  a means  of  guaranteeing  a heterosexual  child. 
Which  do  you  think  would  earn  the  most  moneyV' 

That  question  hit  a nerve;  I said  angrily,  “And  you  had  so  little  faith 
in  people’s  choice  that  you  bombed  the  laboratory  so  that  no  one  would 
ever  have  the  chance  to  decide?” 

Mendelsohn’s  expression  turned  stony.  “I  did  not  bomb  LEI.  Or  irradi- 
ate their  freezer.” 

“No?  We’ve  traced  the  cobalt  60  to  Federation  Centennial.” 

She  looked  stunned  for  a moment,  then  she  said,  “Congratulations.  Six 
thousand  other  people  work  there,  you  know.  I’m  obviously  not  the  only 
one  of  them  who’d  discovered  what  LEI  is  up  to.” 

“You’re  the  only  one  with  access  to  the  Biofile  vault.  What  do  you 
expect  me  to  believe?  That  having  learnt  about  this  project,  you  were 
going  to  do  absolutely  nothing  about  it?” 

“Of  course  not!  And  I still  plan  to  publicize  what  they’re  doing.  Let 
people  know  what  it  will  mean.  Try  to  get  the  issue  debated  before  the 
product  appears  in  a blaze  of  misinformation.” 

“You  said  you’ve  known  about  the  work  for  a year.” 

“Yes — and  I’ve  spent  most  of  that  time  trying  to  verify  all  the  facts, 
before  opening  my  big  mouth.  Nothing  would  have  been  stupider  than 
going  public  with  half-baked  rumors.  I’ve  only  told  about  a dozen  people 
so  far,  but  we  were  going  to  launch  a big  publicity  campaign  to  coincide 


COCOON 


101 


with  this  year’s  Mardi  Gras.  Although  now,  with  the  bombing,  every- 
thing’s a thousand  times  more  complicated.”  She  spread  her  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  helplessness.  “But  we  still  have  to  do  what  we  can,  to  try  to 
keep  the  worst  from  happening.” 

“The  worst?” 

“Separatism.  Paranoia.  Homosexuality  redefined  as  pathological.  Les- 
bians and  sympathetic  straight  women  looking  for  their  own  technologi- 
cal means  to  guarantee  the  survival  of  the  culture  . . . while  the  religious 
far-right  try  to  prosecute  them  for  poisoning  their  babies  . . . with  a sub- 
stance God’s  been  happily  ‘poisoning’  babies  with  for  the  last  few  thou- 
sand years!  Sexual  tourists  traveling  from  wealthy  countries  where  the 
technology  is  in  use,  to  poorer  countries  where  it  isn’t.” 

I was  sickened  by  the  vision  she  was  painting — but  I pushed  on.  “These 
dozen  friends  of  yours — ?” 

Mendelsohn  said  dispassionately,  “Go  fuck  yourself.  I’ve  got  nothing 
more  to  say  to  you.  I’ve  told  you  the  truth.  I’m  not  a criminal.  And  I 
think  you’d  better  leave.” 

I went  to  the  bathroom  and  collected  my  notepad.  In  the  doorway,  I 
said,  “If  you’re  not  a criminal,  why  are  you  so  hard  to  track  down?” 

Wordlessly,  contemptuously,  she  lifted  her  shirt  and  showed  me  the 
bruises  below  her  rib  cage — fading,  but  still  an  ugly  sight.  Whoever  it 
was  who’d  beaten  her — an  ex-lover? — I could  hardly  blame  her  for  doing 
everything  she  could  to  avoid  a repeat  performance. 

On  the  stairs,  I hit  the  REPLAY  button  on  my  notepad.  The  software 
computed  the  frequency  spectrum  for  the  noise  of  the  running  water, 
subtracted  it  out  of  the  recording,  and  then  amplified  and  cleaned  up 
what  remained.  Every  word  of  our  conversation  came  through  crystal 
clear. 

From  my  car,  I phoned  a surveillance  firm  and  arranged  to  have  Men- 
delsohn kept  under  twenty-four-hour  observation. 

Halfway  home,  I stopped  in  a side  street,  and  sat  behind  the  wheel  for 
ten  minutes,  unable  to  think,  unable  to  move. 

In  bed  that  night,  I asked  Martin,  “You’re  left-handed.  How  would  you 
feel  if  no  one  was  ever  bom  left-handed  again?” 

“It  wouldn’t  bother  me  in  the  least.  Why?” 

“You  wouldn’t  think  of  it  as  a kind  of . . . genocide?” 

“Hardly.  What’s  this  all  about?” 

“Nothing.  Forget  it.” 

“You’re  shaking.” 

“I’m  cold.” 

“You  don’t  feel  cold  to  me.” 

As  we  made  love — ^tenderly,  then  savagely — I thought;  This  is  our 

102  GREG  EGAN 


language,  this  is  our  dialect.  Wars  have  been  fought  over  less.  And  if  this 
language  ever  dies  out,  a people  will  have  vanished  from  the  face  of  the 
Earth. 

I knew  I had  to  drop  the  case.  If  Mendelsohn  was  guilty,  someone  else 
could  prove  it.  To  go  on  working  for  LEI  would  destroy  me. 

Afterward,  though  . . . that  seemed  like  sentimental  bullshit.  I be- 
longed to  no  tribe.  Every  human  being  possessed  their  own  sexual- 
ity— and  when  they  died,  it  died  with  them.  If  no  one  was  ever  born  gay 
again,  it  made  no  difference  to  me. 

And  if  I dropped  the  case  because  I was  gay.  I’d  be  abandoning  every- 
thing I’d  ever  believed  about  my  own  equality,  my  own  identity  . . . not 
to  mention  giving  LEI  the  chance  to  announce:  Yes,  of  course  we  hired 
an  investigator  without  regard  to  sexual  preference — but  apparently,  that 
was  a mistake. 

Staring  up  into  the  darkness,  I said,  “Every  time  I hear  the  word 
community,  I reach  for  my  revolver.” 

There  was  no  response;  Martin  was  fast  asleep.  I wanted  to  wake  him, 
I wanted  to  argue  it  all  through,  there  and  then — but  I’d  signed  an 
agreement,  I couldn’t  tell  him  a thing. 

So  I watched  him  sleep,  and  tried  to  convince  myself  that  when  the 
truth  came  out,  he’d  understand. 

I phoned  Janet  Lansing,  brought  her  up  to  date  on  Mendelsohn — and 
said  coldly,  “Why  were  you  so  coy?  ‘Fanatics”?  ‘Powerful  vested  interests’? 
Are  there  some  words  you  have  trouble  pronouncing?” 

She’d  clearly  prepared  herself  for  this  moment.  “I  didn’t  want  to  plant 
my  own  ideas  in  your  head.  Later  on,  that  might  have  been  seen  as 
prejudicial.” 

“Seen  as  prejudicial  by  whom?”  It  was  a rhetorical  question;  the  media, 
of  course.  By  keeping  silent  on  the  issue,  she’d  minimized  the  risk  of 
being  seen  to  have  launched  a witch-hunt.  Telling  me  to  go  look  for 
homosexual  terrorists  might  have  put  LEI  in  a very  unsympathetic 
light . . . whereas  my  finding  Mendelsohn — for  other  reasons  entirely, 
despite  my  ignorance — would  come  across  as  proof  that  the  investigation 
had  been  conducted  without  any  preconceptions. 

I said,  “You  had  your  suspicions,  and  you  should  have  disclosed  them. 
At  the  very  least,  you  should  have  told  me  what  the  barrier  was  for.” 

“The  barrier,”  she  said,  “is  for  protection  against  viruses  and  toxins. 
But  an5d;hing  we  do  to  the  body  has  side  effects.  It’s  not  my  role  to 
judge  whether  or  not  those  side  effects  are  acceptable;  the  regulatory 
authorities  will  insist  that  we  publicize  all  of  the  consequences  of  using 
the  product — and  then  the  decision  will  be  up  to  consumers.” 


COCOON 


103 


Very  neat:  the  government  would  twist  their  arm,  “forcing  them”  to 
disclose  their  major  selling  point! 

“And  what  does  your  market  research  tell  you?” 

“That’s  strictly  confidential.” 

I very  nearly  asked  her:  When  exactly  did  you  find  out  that  I was  gay? 
After  you’d  hired  me— or  before?  On  the  morning  of  the  bombing,  while  I’d 
been  assembling  a dossier  on  Janet  Lansing  . . . had  she  been  assembling 
dossiers  on  all  of  the  people  who  might  have  bid  for  the  investigation? 
And  had  she  found  the  ultimate  PR  advantage,  the  ultimate  seal  of 
impartiality,  just  too  tempting  to  resist? 

I didn’t  ask.  I still  wanted  to  believe  that  it  made  no  difference:  she’d 
hired  me,  and  I’d  solve  the  crime  like  any  other,  and  nothing  else  would 
matter. 

I went  to  the  bunker  where  the  cobalt  had  been  stored,  at  the  edge  of 
Federation  Centennial’s  grounds.  The  trapdoor  was  solid,  but  the  lock 
was  a joke,  and  there  was  no  alarm  system  at  all;  any  smart  twelve-year- 
old  could  have  broken  in.  Crates  full  of  all  kinds  of  (low-level,  short- 
lived) radioactive  waste  were  stacked  up  to  the  ceiling,  blocking  most  of 
the  light  from  the  single  bulb;  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  theft  hadn’t 
been  detected  sooner.  There  were  even  cobwebs — but  no  mutant  spiders, 
so  far  as  I could  see. 

After  five  minutes  poking  around,  listening  to  my  borrowed  dosimetry 
badge  adding  up  the  exposure,  I was  glad  to  get  out . . . whether  or  not 
the  average  chest  X-ray  would  have  done  ten  times  more  damage.  Hadn’t 
Mendelsohn  realized  that:  how  irrational  people  were  about  radiation, 
how  much  harm  it  would  do  her  cause  once  the  cobalt  was  discovered? 
Or  had  her  own — fully  informed — knowledge  of  the  minimal  risks  dis- 
torted her  perception? 

The  surveillance  teams  sent  me  reports  daily.  It  was  an  expensive 
service,  but  LEI  was  paying.  Mendelsohn  met  her  friends  openly — ^telling 
them  all  about  the  night  I’d  questioned  her,  warning  them  in  outraged 
tones  that  they  were  almost  certainly  being  watched.  They  discussed  the 
fetal  barrier,  the  options  for — legitimate — opposition,  the  problems  the 
bombing  had  caused  them.  I couldn’t  tell  if  the  whole  thing  was  being 
staged  for  my  benefit,  or  if  Mendelsohn  was  deliberately  contacting  only 
those  friends  who  genuinely  believed  that  she  hadn’t  been  involved. 

I spent  most  of  my  time  checking  the  histories  of  the  people  she  met. 
I could  find  no  evidence  of  past  violence  or  sabotage  by  any  of  them — let 
alone  experience  with  high  explosives.  But  then,  I hadn’t  seriously  ex- 
pected to  be  led  straight  to  the  bomber. 

All  I had  was  circumstantial  evidence.  All  I could  do  was  gather  detail 
after  detail,  and  hope  that  the  mountain  of  facts  I was  assembling  would 


104 


GREG  EGAN 


eventually  reach  a critical  mass — or  that  Mendelsohn  would  slip  up, 
cracking  under  the  pressure. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Mendelsohn  continued  to  brazen  it  out.  She  even 
had  pamphlets  printed,  ready  to  distribute  at  the  Mardi  Gras — condemn- 
ing the  bombing  as  loudly  as  they  condemned  LEI  for  its  secrecy. 

The  nights  grew  hotter.  My  temper  frayed.  I don’t  know  what  Martin 
thought  was  happening  to  me,  but  I had  no  idea  how  we  were  going  to 
survive  the  impending  revelations.  I couldn’t  begin  to  face  up  to  the 
magnitude  of  the  backlash  there’d  be  once  ATOMIC  TERRORISTS  met 
GAY  BABY-POISONERS  in  the  daily  murdochs — and  it  would  make  no 
difference  whether  it  was  Mendelsohn’s  arrest  which  broke  the  news  to 
the  public,  or  her  media  conference  blowing  the  whistle  on  LEI  and 
proclaiming  her  own  innocence;  either  way,  the  investigation  would  be- 
come a circus.  I tried  not  to  think  about  any  of  it;  it  was  too  late  to  do 
anything  differently,  to  drop  the  case,  to  tell  Martin  the  truth.  So  I 
worked  on  my  tunnel  vision. 

Elaine  scoured  the  radioactive  waste  bunker  for  evidence,  but  weeks 
of  analysis  came  up  blank.  I quizzed  the  Biofile  guards,  who  (supposedly) 
would  have  been  watching  the  whole  thing  on  their  monitors  when  the 
cobalt  was  planted,  but  nobody  could  recall  a client  with  an  unusually 
large  and  oddly  shaped  item,  wandering  casually  into  the  wrong  aisle. 

I finally  obtained  the  warrants  I needed  to  scrutinize  Mendelsohn’s 
entire  electronic  history  since  birth.  She’d  been  arrested  exactly  once, 
twenty  years  before,  for  kicking  an — unprivatized — ^policeman  in  the 
shin,  during  a protest  he’d  probably,  privately,  applauded.  'The  charges 
had  been  dropped.  She’d  had  a court  order  in  force  for  the  last  eighteen 
months,  restraining  a former  lover  from  coming  within  a kilometer  of 
her  home.  (The  woman  was  a musician  with  a band  called  Tetanus 
Switchblade;  she  had  two  convictions  for  assault.)  There  was  no  evidence 
of  undeclared  income,  or  unusual  expenditure.  No  phone  calls  to  or  from 
known  or  suspected  dealers  in  arms  or  explosives,  or  their  known  or 
suspected  associates.  But  everything  could  have  been  done  with  pay 
phones  and  cash,  if  she’d  organized  it  carefully. 

Mendelsohn  wasn’t  going  to  put  a foot  wrong  while  I was  watching. 
However  careful  she’d  been,  though,  she  could  not  have  carried  out  the 
bombing  alone.  What  I needed  was  someone  venal,  nervous,  or  con- 
science-stricken enough  to  turn  informant.  I put  out  word  on  the  usual 
channels:  I’d  be  willing  to  pay.  I’d  be  willing  to  bargain. 

Six  weeks  after  the  bombing,  I received  an  anonymous  message  by 
datamail: 

Be  at  the  Mardi  Gras.  No  wires,  no  weapons.  I’ll  find  you. 

29:17:5:31:23:11 


COCOON 


105 


I played  with  the  numbers  for  more  than  an  hour,  trying  to  make  sense 
of  them,  before  I finally  showed  them  to  Elaine. 

She  said,  “Be  careful,  James.” 

“Why?” 

‘These  are  the  ratios  of  the  six  trace  elements  we  found  in  the  residue 
from  the  explosion.” 

Martin  spent  the  day  of  the  Mardi  Gras  with  friends  who’d  also  be  in 
the  parade.  I sat  in  my  air-conditioned  office  and  tuned  in  to  a TV  channel 
which  showed  the  final  preparations,  interspersed  with  talking  heads 
describing  the  history  of  the  event.  In  forty  years,  the  Gay  and  Lesbian 
Mardi  Gras  had  been  transformed  from  a series  of  ugly  confrontations 
with  police  and  local  authorities,  into  a money-spinning  spectacle  adver- 
tised in  tourist  brochures  around  the  world.  It  was  blessed  by  every  level 
of  government,  led  by  politicians  and  business  identities — and  the  police, 
like  most  professions,  now  had  their  own  float. 

Martin  was  no  transvestite  (or  muscle-bound  leather-fetishist,  or  any 
other  walking  cliche);  dressing  up  in  a flamboyant  costume,  one  night  a 
year,  was  as  false,  as  artificial,  for  him  as  it  would  have  been  for  most 
heterosexual  men.  But  I think  I understood  why  he  did  it.  He  felt  guilty 
that  he  could  “pass  for  straight”  in  the  clothes  he  usually  wore,  with  the 
speech  and  manner  and  bearing  which  came  naturally  to  him.  He’d  never 
concealed  his  sexuality  from  anyone — ^but  it  wasn’t  instantly  apparent 
to  total  strangers.  For  him,  taking  part  in  the  Mardi  Gras  was  a gesture 
of  solidarity  with  those  gay  men  who  were  visible,  obvious,  all  year 
round — and  who’d  borne  the  brunt  of  intolerance  because  of  it. 

As  dusk  fell,  spectators  began  to  gather  along  the  route.  Helicopters 
from  every  news  service  appeared  overhead,  turning  their  cameras  on 
each  other  to  prove  to  their  viewers  that  this  was  An  Event.  Mounted 
crowd-control  personnel — in  something  very  much  like  the  old  blue  uni- 
form that  had  vanished  when  I was  a child — parked  their  horses  by  the 
fast-food  stands,  and  stood  around  fortifying  themselves  for  the  long 
night  ahead. 

I didn’t  see  how  the  bomber  could  seriously  expect  to  find  me  once  I 
was  mingling  with  a hundred  thousand  other  people — so  after  leaving 
the  Nexus  building,  I drove  my  car  around  the  block  slowly,  three  times, 
just  in  case. 

By  the  time  I’d  made  my  way  to  a vantage  point.  I’d  missed  the  start 
of  the  parade;  the  first  thing  I saw  was  a long  line  of  people  wearing 
giant  plastic  heads  bearing  the  features  of  famous  and  infamous  queers. 
(Apparently  the  word  was  back  in  fashion  again,  officially  declared  non- 
peijorative  once  more,  after  several  years  out  of  favor.)  It  was  all  so 


106 


GREG  EGAN 


Disney  I could  have  gagged — and  yes,  there  was  even  Bernadette,  the 
world’s  first  lesbian  cartoon  mouse.  I only  recognized  three  of  the  humans 
portrayed — Patrick  White,  looking  haggard  and  suitably  bemused,  Joe 
Orton,  leering  sardonically,  and  J.  Edgar  Hoover,  with  a Mephistophe- 
lian  sneer.  Everyone  wore  their  names  on  sashes,  though,  for  what  that 
was  worth.  A young  man  beside  me  asked  his  girlfriend,  “Who  the  hell 
was  Walt  Whitman?” 

She  shook  her  head.  “No  idea.  Alan  Turing?” 

“Search  me.” 

They  photographed  both  of  them,  anyway. 

I wanted  to  yell  at  the  marchers;  So  what?  Some  queers  were  famous. 
Some  famous  people  were  queer.  What  a surprise!  Do  you  think  that  means 
you  own  them? 

I kept  silent,  of  course — while  everyone  around  me  cheered  and 
clapped.  I wondered  how  close  the  bomber  was,  how  long  he  or  she  would 
leave  me  sweating.  Panopticon — the  surveillance  contractors — were  still 
following  Mendelsohn  and  all  of  her  known  associates,  most  of  whom 
were  somewhere  along  the  route  of  the  parade,  handing  out  their  pam- 
phlets. None  of  them  appeared  to  have  followed  me,  though.  The  bomber 
was  almost  certainly  someone  outside  the  network  of  friends  we’d  un- 
covered. 

An  anti-viral,  anti-drug,  anti-pollution  barrier,  alone — or  a means  of 
guaranteeing  a heterosexual  child.  Which  do  you  think  would  earn  the 
most  money?  Surrounded  by  cheering  spectators — half  of  them  mixed- 
sex  couples  with  children  in  tow — it  was  almost  possible  to  laugh  off 
Mendelsohn’s  fears.  Who,  here,  would  admit  that  they’d  buy  a version  of 
the  cocoon  which  would  help  wipe  out  the  source  of  their  entertainment? 
But  applauding  the  freak  show  didn’t  mean  wanting  your  own  flesh  and 
blood  to  join  it. 

An  hour  after  the  parade  had  started,  I decided  to  move  out  of  the 
densest  part  of  the  crowd.  If  the  bomber  couldn’t  reach  me  through  the 
crush  of  people,  there  wasn’t  much  point  being  here.  A hundred  or  so 
leather-clad  women  on — noise-enhanced — electric  motorbikes  went  ri- 
ding past  in  a crucifix  formation,  behind  a banner  which  read  DYKES 
ON  BIKES  FOR  JESUS.  I recalled  the  small  group  of  fundamentalists 
I’d  passed  earlier,  their  backs  to  the  parade  route  lest  they  turn  into 
pillars  of  salt,  holding  up  candles  and  praying  for  rain. 

I made  my  way  to  one  of  the  food  stalls,  and  bought  a cold  hot  dog  and 
a warm  orange  juice,  trying  to  ignore  the  smell  of  horse  turds.  The  place 
seemed  to  attract  law  enforcement  tjrpes;  J.  Edgar  Hoover  himself  came 
wandering  by  while  I was  eating,  looking  like  a malevolent  Humpty 
Dumpty. 

As  he  passed  me,  he  said,  “Twenty-nine.  Seventeen.  Five.” 


COCOON 


107 


I finished  my  hot  dog  and  followed  him. 

He  stopped  in  a deserted  side  street,  behind  a supermarket  parking 
lot.  As  I caught  up  with  him,  he  took  out  a magnetic  scanner. 

I said,  “No  wires,  no  weapons.”  He  waved  the  device  over  me.  I was 
telling  the  truth.  “Can  you  talk  through  that  thing?” 

“Yes.”  The  giant  head  bobbed  strangely;  I couldn’t  see  any  eye  holes, 
but  he  cleeirly  wasn’t  blind. 

“Okay.  Where  did  the  explosives  come  from?  We  know  they  started  off 
in  Singapore,  but  who  was  your  supplier  here?” 

Hoover  laughed,  deep  and  muffled.  “I’m  not  going  to  tell  you  that.  I’d 
be  dead  in  a week.” 

“So  what  do  you  want  to  tell  me?” 

“That  I only  did  the  grunt  work.  Mendelsohn  organized  everything.” 

“No  shit.  But  what  have  you  got  that  will  prove  it?  Phone  calls?  Finan- 
cial transactions?” 

He  just  laughed  again.  I was  beginning  to  wonder  how  many  people 
in  the  parade  would  know  who’d  played  J.  Edgar  Hoover;  even  if  he 
clammed  up  now,  it  was  possible  that  I’d  be  able  to  track  him  down  later. 

That  was  when  I turned  and  saw  six  more,  identical.  Hoovers  coming 
around  the  comer.  They  were  all  carrying  baseball  bats. 

I started  to  move.  Hoover  One  drew  a pistol  and  aimed  it  at  my  face. 
He  said,  “Kneel  down  slowly,  with  your  hands  behind  your  head.” 

I did  it.  He  kept  the  gun  on  me,  and  I kept  my  eyes  on  the  trigger,  but 
I heard  the  others  arrive,  and  close  into  a half-circle  behind  me. 

Hoover  One  said,  “Don’t  you  know  what  happens  to  traitors?  Don’t  you 
know  what’s  going  to  happen  to  you?” 

I shook  my  head  slowly.  I didn’t  know  what  I could  say  to  appease  him, 
so  I spoke  the  truth.  “How  can  I be  a traitor?  What  is  there  to  betray? 
Dykes  on  Bikes  for  Jesus?  The  William  S.  Burroughs  Dancers?” 

Someone  behind  me  swung  their  bat  into  the  small  of  my  back.  Not  as 
hard  as  they  might  have;  I lurched  forward,  but  I kept  my  balance. 

Hoover  One  said,  “Don’t  you  know  any  history,  Mr.  Pig?  Mr.  Polizei? 
The  Nazis  put  us  in  their  death  camps.  The  Reaganites  tried  to  have  us 
all  die  of  AIDS.  And  here  you  are  now,  Mr.  Pig,  working  for  the  fuckers 
who  want  to  wipe  us  off  the  face  of  the  planet.  That  sounds  like  betrayal 
to  me.” 

I knelt  there,  staring  at  the  gim,  unable  to  speak.  I couldn’t  dredge  up 
the  words  to  justify  myself.  The  tmth  was  too  difficult,  too  gray,  too 
confusing.  My  teeth  started  chattering.  Nazis.  AIDS.  Genocide.  Maybe 
he  was  right.  Maybe  I deserved  to  die. 

I felt  tears  on  my  cheeks.  Hoover  One  laughed.  “Boo  hoo,  Mr.  Pig.” 
Someone  swung  their  bat  onto  my  shoulders.  I fell  forward  on  my  face. 


108 


GREG  EGAN 


too  afraid  to  move  my  hands  to  break  the  fall;  I tried  to  get  up,  but  a 
boot  came  down  on  the  back  of  my  neck. 

Hoover  One  bent  down  and  put  the  gun  to  my  skull.  He  whispered, 
“Will  you  close  the  case?  Lose  the  evidence  on  Catherine?  You  know, 
your  boyfriend  frequents  some  dangerous  places;  he  needs  all  the  friends 
he  can  get.” 

I lifted  my  face  high  enough  above  the  asphalt  to  reply.  “Yes.” 

“Well  done,  Mr.  Pig.” 

That  was  when  I heard  the  helicopter. 

I blinked  the  gravel  out  of  my  eyes  and  saw  the  ground,  far  brighter 
than  it  should  have  been;  there  was  a spotlight  trained  on  us.  I waited 
for  the  sound  of  a bullhorn.  Nothing  happened.  I waited  for  my  assailants 
to  flee.  Hoover  One  took  his  foot  off  my  neck. 

And  then  they  all  laid  into  me  with  their  baseball  bats. 

I should  have  curled  up  and  protected  my  head,  but  curiosity  got  the 
better  of  me;  I turned  and  stole  a glimpse  of  the  chopper.  It  was  a news 
crew,  of  course,  refusing  to  do  anything  unethical  like  spoil  a good  story 
just  when  it  was  getting  telegenic.  That  much  made  perfect  sense. 

But  the  goon  squad  made  no  sense  at  all.  Why  were  they  sticking  around, 
now  that  the  cameras  were  running?  Just  for  the  pleasure  of  beating  me 
for  a few  seconds  longer? 

Nobody  was  that  stupid,  that  oblivious  to  PR. 

I coughed  up  two  teeth  and  hid  my  face  again.  They  wanted  it  all  to  be 
broadcast.  They  wanted  the  headlines,  the  backlash,  the  outrage. 
ATOMIC  TERRORISTS!  BABY-POISONERS!  BRUTAL  THUGS! 

They  wanted  to  demonize  the  enemy  they  were  pretending  to  be. 

The  Hoovers  Anally  dropped  their  bats  and  started  running.  I lay  on 
the  ground  drooling  blood,  too  weak  to  lift  my  head  to  see  what  had 
driven  them  away. 

A while  later,  I heard  hoofbeats.  Someone  dropped  to  the  ground  beside 
me  and  checked  my  pulse. 

I said,  “I’m  not  in  pain.  I’m  happy.  I’m  delirious.” 

Then  I passed  out. 

On  his  second  visit,  Martin  brought  Catherine  Mendelsohn  to  the  hos- 
pital with  him.  They  showed  me  a recording  of  LEI’s  media  conference, 
the  day  after  the  Mardi  Gras — two  hours  before  Mendelsohn’s  was  sched- 
uled to  take  place. 

Janet  Lansing  said,  “In  the  light  of  recent  events,  we  have  no  choice 
but  to  go  public.  We  would  have  preferred  to  keep  this  technology  under 
wraps  for  commercial  reasons,  but  innocent  lives  are  at  stake.  And  when 
people  turn  on  their  own  kind — ” 

I burst  the  stitches  in  my  lips  laughing. 


COCOON 


109 


LEI  had  bombed  their  own  laboratory.  They’d  irradiated  their  own 
cells.  And  they’d  hoped  that  I’d  cover  up  for  Mendelsohn,  once  the  evi- 
dence led  me  to  her,  out  of  sympathy  with  her  cause.  Later,  with  a tip- 
off  to  an  investigative  reporter  or  two,  the  cover-up  would  have  been 
revealed. 

The  perfect  climate  for  their  product  launch. 

Since  I’d  continued  with  the  investigation,  though,  they’d  had  to  make 
the  best  of  it:  sending  in  the  Hoovers,  claiming  to  be  linked  to  Mendel- 
sohn, to  punish  me  for  my  diligence. 

Mendelsohn  said,  “Everything  LEI  leaked  about  me — the  cobalt,  my 
key  to  the  vault — was  already  spelt  out  in  the  pamphlets  I’d  printed,  but 
that  doesn’t  seem  to  cut  much  ice  with  the  murdochs.  I’m  the  Harbor 
Bridge  Gamma  Ray  Terrorist  now.” 

“You’ll  never  be  charged.” 

“Of  course  not.  So  I’ll  never  be  found  innocent,  either.” 

I said,  “When  I’m  out  of  here.  I’m  going  after  them.”  They  wanted 
impartiality'?  An  investigation  untainted  by  prejudice?  They’d  get  exactly 
what  they  paid  for,  this  time.  Minus  the  tunnel  vision. 

Martin  said  softly,  “Who’s  going  to  employ  you  to  do  that?” 

I smiled,  painfully.  “LEI’s  insurance  company.” 

When  they’d  left,  I dozed  off. 

I woke  suddenly,  from  a dream  of  suffocation. 

Even  if  I proved  that  the  whole  thing  had  been  a marketing  exercise 
by  LEI — even  if  half  their  directors  were  thrown  in  prison,  even  if  the 
company  itself  was  liquidated — the  technology  would  still  be  owned  by 
someone. 

And  one  way  or  another,  in  the  end,  it  would  be  sold. 

That’s  what  I’d  missed,  in  my  fanatical  neutrality:  you  can’t  sell  a cure 
without  a disease.  So  even  if  I was  right  to  be  neutral — even  if  there 
was  no  difference  to  fight  for,  no  difference  to  betray,  no  difference  to 
preserve — ^the  best  way  to  sell  the  cocoon  would  always  be  to  invent  one. 
And  even  if  it  would  be  no  tragedy  at  all  if  there  was  nothing  left  but 
heterosexuality  in  a century’s  time,  the  only  path  which  could  lead  there 
would  be  one  of  lies,  and  wounding,  and  vilification. 

Would  people  buy  that,  or  not? 

I was  suddenly  very  much  afraid  that  they  would.  # 


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110 


GREG  EGAN 


I think  it  comes  and  goes . . . tick  tick  boom 
about  ten  thousand  miiiion  years  ago 
there  wasn’t  any  space  there  wasn’t  any  room 
time  did  not  exist  nothing  could  die  or  grow 

about  ten  thousand  million  years  ago 
God  woke  up  looked  around  complained 
"Time  does  not  exist.  Nothing  can  die,  or  grow, 
or  have  any  place  to  be.  This  is  insane.” 

God  looked  up  walked  around  contained 
in  one  small  point  He  walked  he  didn’t 
have  any  place  to  be  he  went  insane 
and  pushed  the  button  Boom!  it  all  began 

in  one  small  point  he  worked  he  didn’t 
sleep  for  six  whole  days  each  a zillion  years 
then  push  the  button  boom  it  all  begins 
again  it  works  like  this  all  your  fears 

about  scientists  are  true  chaos  reigns 
it  takes  about  ten  thousand  million  years 
to  evolve  a jerk  who  can  build  a machine 
to  recreate  the  Big  Bang  with  no  fear 

like  a clock  every  ten  thousand  million  years 
some  jerk  pushes  the  button  boom  RESET 
you  have  a new  place  to  be  one  small  point 
everything  is  chaos  everything’s  destroyed 


because  some  Jerk  pushed  the  button  relax 
it  will  all  come  around  again  it  all  would  just  give  room 
to  entropy  othenwise  face  the  simple  facts 
you  know  it  comes  and  goes . . . tick  tick  boom 


Greg  Costikyan  recently  completed  a new  novel,  One  Quest,  Hold  the 
Dragons.  It  is  a sequel  to  his  earlier  book.  Another  Day,  Another 
Dungeon,  which  was  published  by  Tor  and  the  Science  Fiction  Book 
Club  in  1 990.  A third  volume  in  the  "Cups  & Sorcery"  series  is 
anticipated.  Mr.  Costikyan  assures  us  that  "he  is  not  now,  nor  has  he 
ever  been,  a member  of  the  Communist  Party  or  any  other  organization 
devoted  to  the  forcible  overthrow  of  the  American  government."  Still, 
that  hasn't  stopped  him  from  fashioning  a chilling  look  at  why... 


“Parlor  pink,”  I said. 

I didn’t  have  much  time;  the  door  was  unlocked,  and  people  might 
wander  in  at  any  moment.  The  bar  in  the  ballroom  of  the  Chinese  em- 
bassy was  swamped;  apparently,  people  hadn’t  discovered  this  bEU"  yet, 
which  gave  me  a chance  to  test  the  robot  behind  it.  It  puzzled  me. 

One,  two,  three. . . . 'There  was  a time  delay  before  the  bartender  swung 
into  action.  Its  brain  was  in  Moscow,  or  possibly  Beijing;  but  why  so  long 
a delay?  It  mixed  me  the  cocktail;  cranberry  juice,  dark  Cuban  rum, 
seltzer,  twist  of  lime.  Devilish  clever,  these  Chinese. 

I sidled  around  the  bar.  The  electronics  were  in  a box  held  closed  by 
small  hex  screws.  The  tools  I use  to  maintain  my  terminal  were  in  my 
purse;  I had  the  cover  off  in  seconds.  I pulled  out  a breadboard.  Several 
black  chips  said  PBF  16M;  standard  memory  chips,  probably  bought 
from  the  Proletarian  Electronics  plant  outside  Vladivostok.  Sixteen  megs 
a piece;  they  had  cost  someone  a pretty  kopek.  What  I wanted  to  know 
was,  how  did  it  communicate  with  Beijing?  There  were  no  obvious  cables, 
but  the  U.S.  had  no  cellular  phone  system  yet,  and  . . . 

There,  that  was  a radio  transmitter.  It  occurred  to  me  that  the  Chinese 
embassy  must  have  a satellite  link;  that  explained  the  delay.  It  takes  a 
quarter  second  or  so  to  bounce  data  off  a satellite;  it  would  take  less  time 
to  route  communications  over  cable,  but  America’s  rickety  phone  system 
probably  wasn’t  up  to  the  task. 

The  door  to  the  room  opened.  I cursed,  crouching  behind  the  bar.  I was 
not  entirely  comfortable,  not  in  high  heels. 

“Hello?”  said  someone  in  English.  I kept  down.  He  muttered  some- 
thing, then  made  his  way  to  the  bartender.  “Scotch  on  the — hello.  I 
thought  I saw  you  come  in  here.”  It  was  that  American;  handsome  fellow. 
He’d  been  eying  me  from  across  the  party. 

There  I was,  on  the  floor  behind  the  bar,  electronics  spread  out  around 
me.  Stupid,  stupid;  I shouldn’t  have  let  curiosity  get  the  better  of  me.  I 
started  shoving  things  back  into  the  bartender. 

“Bloody  hell,”  I said.  “I  hadn’t  expected  you  to  follow  me.” 

“Why’d  you  wink  at  me,  then?”  he  said. 

“Why  not?”  I said.  “Boring  party.” 

“Getting  in  a little  industrial  espionage  before  they  serve  dinner?” 

“Really,  no,”  I said,  screwing  the  plate  back  onto  the  box.  “Scotch  on 
the  rocks,”  I said  experimentally;  one,  two — the  thing  seemed  to  work 
okay.  ‘"That  is  what  you  wanted?” 

“Yeah,”  he  said,  taking  the  drink. 

“I  was  just  curious,”  I said.  “The  Chinese  are  very  clever  about  commer- 
cial use  of  electronics,  you  know;  ahead  of  us  in  many  ways.” 

“Sure,”  he  said.  “You  Russkis  spent  too  much  time  building  killer 
satellites,  and  not  enough  time  building  color  'TVs.  I’m  Frank  Mangiara.” 

114  GREG  COSTIKYAN 


“I  can  read,”  I said,  a little  irritably;  that’s  what  his  nametag  said,  of 
course.  I glanced  behind  the  bar;  no,  there  didn’t  seem  to  be  any  evidence 
of  my  tinkering.  I straightened  my  stockings.  Thankfully,  Mangiara 
seemed  more  interested  in  my  legs  than  my,  um,  extralegal  activities. 

“Look,  let’s  get  back  to  the  party  before  Sam  here  starts  spraying  us 
with  vodka,  okay?”  I said. 

“Okay,”  said  Mangiara,  and  held  the  door  for  me. 

'The  noise  of  the  ballroom  was  a shock.  I waved  at  Ambassador  Wan, 
who  waved  back.  He  was  drunk,  weaving  a bit  on  his  feet,  and  getting 
drunker  by  the  minute;  I had  no  doubt  he  was  regaling  the  Americans 
clustered  about  him  with  yet  another  interminable  story  about  the  Long 
March.  I wondered  how  I was  going  to  ditch  Mangiara.  Then,  I wondered 
whether  I wanted  to;  the  party  looked  like  it  was  getting  duller  by  the 
moment. 

“I’ve  never  met  an  academician  before,”  Mangiara  said,  shouting  over 
the  mob.  He  was  reading  my  nametag,  of  course:  Academician  Nazarian, 
that’s  me.  A fully- vested  member  of  the  Soviet  Academy  of  Sciences. 
Really. 

“You’re  a Marxist?”  Mangiara  asked. 

“Isn’t  everyone?”  I said,  snagging  a dumpling  from  a passing  waiter. 
“But  no,”  I said.  “Marxism  isn’t  my  science.  I work  with  the  Big  Brain.” 

“You’re  in  computers?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,”  I said. 

“Why  are  you  in  Washington,  then?  Isn’t  Moscow  the  place  to  be?” 

I shrugged.  “Fraternal  Soviet  assistance  to  aid  America  in  its  difficult 
transition  to  the  modem  socialist  order,”  I said.  “Central  planners  need 
accurate,  timely  data  to  manage  an  economy  efficiently — can’t  have  cen- 
tral planning  without  central  processing.  Your  computers  need  help.  I’m 
supposed  to  bring  them  up  to  snuff.” 

“We’re  decades  behind,  I suppose,”  said  Mangiara  dolorously. 

“Of  course,”  I said.  “Look,  Frank,  I’m  bored  out  of  my  skull.  What  say 
we  paint  the  town  red?” 

He  gave  me  a sudden  grin.  “I  think  I can  find  some  drop  cloths  and 
brushes.” 

“Lead  on,  MacDuff,”  said  I. 

Mangiara  unlocked  a nifty  little  Great  Wall  roadster,  bucket  seats  and 
gull-wing  doors.  It  bad  government  plates — well,  of  course.  Mangiara 
had  to  have  something  to  do  with  the  U.S.  government,  or  he  wouldn’t 
be  attending  a party  at  the  Chinese  embassy. 

“How  did  you  wangle  this?”  I asked,  as  we  slid  into  the  sparse  Washing- 
ton traffic. 

“Hmm?” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


115 


“Doesn’t  the  U.S.  government  require  its  functionaries  to  drive  Ameri- 
can cars?” 

He  gave  me  a bo3rish  grin.  “Those  rattletraps?”  he  said.  “I’ve  got  a 
Mend  in  the  dispatcher’s  office.  Let  them  stick  someone  else  with  those 
two-stroke  Chevies.” 

“What  do  you  do,  an5rway?” 

Mangieira  spoke  absently,  concentrating  on  driving.  “Department  of 
Transportation,”  he  said.  “Something  to  do  with  choo-choo  trains.  Pretty 
dull,  really.” 

Well,  if  even  he  thought  it  was  dull,  I wasn’t  too  interested  in  talking 
about  it. 

Washington  was  more  attractive  by  night  than  by  day;  darkness  hid 
the  coal-smoke  grime,  the  despairing  faces,  the  stoop-shouldered  men 
and  women  clad  in  badly  tailored  clothes.  As  we  neared  Pennsylvania 
Avenue,  the  traffic  thickened.  Mangiara  grunted.  “Oops,”  he  said.  “For- 
got about  that.” 

“About  what?” 

He  pointed  through  the  windshield.  At  the  end  of  the  block,  past  the 
motionless  cars  that  blocked  our  way,  were  flickering  torches.  “Demo 
tonight,”  he  said. 

“Who  is  it?”  I said. 

“Republicans,”  he  said 

I shivered — fascists.  They  still  had  enough  influence  in  the  Supreme 
Court  and  Senate  to  block  reforms.  From  time  to  time,  the  police  would 
halt  the  marchers  long  enough  to  let  a few  cars  across  the  street. 

“I’m  sorry,”  said  Mangiara.  “If  I’d  remembered,  I could  have  taken  a 
different  route.  We’ll  just  have  to  wait.” 

“Nichevo”  I told  him. 

After  some  time,  we  reached  the  end  of  the  block.  A very  nervous 
policeman  held  up  a hand  to  stop  us,  then  waved  the  marchers  past. 

They  bore  burning  brands  in  the  darkness,  American  flags  and  eagles, 
portraits  of  the  tyrant  Nixon,  signs  demanding,  “No  More  Nationaliza- 
tions!” and  “Live  Free  or  Die”  and  “Death  to  Radey” — the  senator  from 
California,  the  first  member  of  the  CP/USA  to  be  elected  to  federal  office. 
Many  of  them  were  in  uniform.  Breath  puffed  white  in  the  cold  winter 
air. 

They  looked  angry;  the  policemen  lining  the  street,  in  their  riot  garb, 
looked  a little  scared. 

I don’t  know  what  set  them  off;  a thrown  rock,  a curse,  rabble-rousing, 
provocation  by  the  police  ...  it  hardly  matters.  Any  demonstration  is  a 
tinderbox.  Suddenly,  the  marchers  were  running  and  shouting.  The  po- 
lice line  was  in  motion,  tear  gas  swirled  across  the  avenue.  Mangiara 
swiftly  shut  the  vent  on  the  car’s  heater,  to  avoid  sucking  in  the  gas. 


116 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


One  man,  a hefty  blue-collar  type,  began  pounding  on  the  hood  of 
Mangiara’s  Chinese  car,  shouting  “Buy  American!” 

“For  shame!”  I shouted  at  him.  “Where’s  your  international  working- 
class  solidarity!” 

“Please,”  Mangiara  moaned. 

The  worker  turned  puce,  found  an  uprooted  No-Parking  sign,  and 
bashed  at  the  windshield.  Cracks  spread  across  the  glass,  but  it  held. 
Mangiara  backed  up  and  floored  the  accelerator;  the  worker  dodged  out 
of  the  way,  only  just  in  time.  We  drove  hesitantly  across  the  street, 
marchers  stumbling  into  the  side  of  the  car  as  they  fled,  unable  to  see 
for  the  roiling,  noisome  gas. 

We  finally  made  it  across  the  road.  Mangiara  sped  down  the  street, 
getting  away  from  the  demo  as  fast  as  he  could.  “Well,”  he  said,  “not 
exactly  the  start  to  the  evening  I had  planned.” 

“Actually,  I quite  enjoyed  it,”  I said. 

He  gave  me  a startled  glance. 

“Invigorating,”  I said. 

He  looked  somewhat  bemused. 

“I’m  sorry  about  your  windshield,”  I said. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “there  are  advantages  to  being  part  of  the  motor  pool.” 

We  sped  down  darkened  streets,  past  sleeping  bums  and  hopeless  faces, 
to  an  area  I would  have  hesitated  to  visit,  unescorted.  He  led  me  down 
a flight  of  stairs  to  a basement  cabeu'et. 

The  lights  were  low,  the  room  inevitably  smoke-filled — the  American 
health  authorities  have  worse  things  to  worry  about  than  smoking.  The 
clientele,  to  my  startlement,  was  at  least  half  Negro;  I had  been  few 
places  in  America  where  the  races  mixed  freely.  At  the  stage  was  a jazz 
band.  They  were  absolutely  first  rate. 

Mangiara  ordered  us  ribs  and  an  American  whisky,  and  we  listened 
attentively. 

After  a while,  the  band  took  a break.  “I’m  surprised  there  are  places 
like  this  in  America,”  I said. 

“Not  too  many,”  he  said.  “Jazz  doesn’t  get  the  audience  here  it  does  in 
Europe;  but  not  too  many  Negroes  have  the  price  of  a ticket  to  Paris,  you 
know.” 

The  next  set  began,  and  the  ribs  came  soon  after.  Mangiara  showed 
me  how  to  eat  them:  with  the  fingers,  gnawing  the  meat  off  the  bones,  a 
primitive,  somehow  satisfying  practice.  His  leg  was  against  mine,  under 
the  table. 

When  we  were  finished,  Mangiara  said,  “Well,  it’s  getting  late.” 

“You  disappoint  me,  tovarishch,”  I said.  “This  is  your  idea  of  a town 
painted  red?” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


117 


He  gave  me  a lopsided  smile.  He  had  a nice  dimple.  “You  don’t  have 
to  work  tomorrow?” 

“More  to  the  point,”  I said,  “I  can’t  work  tomorrow.” 

“Why  not?” 

I sighed.  “The  bloody  Pentagon  won’t  let  me  in  to  take  a look  at 
Univac.” 

“Someone  should  tell  them  the  Cold  War  is  over.” 

‘That  would  be  nice.” 

“Still,”  he  said,  “they  did  spend  fifty  years  making  sure  no  Reds  ever 
got  close  to  the  thing.” 

“Yes,  yes,  understandable,”  I said,  “but  it’s  damned  debilitating.  I 
didn’t  come  to  the  U.S.  to  loaf.” 

He  nodded  philosophically,  and  caught  the  waitress’s  eye.  He  made 
scribbling  motions  with  his  hands.  “Feel  like  dancing?”  The  waitress 
brought  the  check. 

“Definitely  da,”  I said. 

“Cit6  d’Espace,”  it  said  in  neon;  didn’t  look  like  my  idea  of  a space 
station.  It  had  once  been  a warehouse,  all  bare  brick  walls  and  industrial 
piping,  glittering  lights  and  loud  music.  The  clientele  was  what  passed 
for  the  spoiled  children  of  the  American  elite,  teenagers  and  post-teens 
clad  in  tight  mylar  and  European  fashions.  The  headline  act  was  a third- 
rate  German  techno  band — I imagined  the  U.S.  didn’t  get  first  rate  tal- 
ent— followed  by  local  groups.  I was  puzzled  by  the  French  name — techno 
originated  in  Berlin,  and  its  stars  are  still  mainly  German — until  I re- 
called the  depths  of  American  bitterness  at  West  Germany’s  withdrawal 
from  NATO  and  its  reunification  under  a communist  regime,  the  act  that 
precipitated  the  end  to  the  Western  alliance. 

Mangiara  got  me  a drink  laced  with  something,  and  we  spent  some 
time  on  the  floor.  I enjoyed  myself 

Afterward  we  hit  a little  patisserie  for  Napoleons  and  coffee;  had  a 
drink  in  the  bar  at  one  of  Washington’s  better  hotels,  where  a piano 
player  sang  tunes  from  old  Brecht- Weill  musical  comedies;  and  wound 
up  at  a rather  seedy  club  that  featured  vaudeville. 

“There’s  life  in  America  after  all,”  I told  Mangiara,  happily  exhausted, 
as  we  sped  onward,  apparently  through  the  country  north  of  Washington. 
We’d  been  so  many  places,  I didn’t  bother  to  ask  where  we  were  headed; 
it  didn’t  seem  to  matter. 

‘This  is  nothing,”  he  said.  “You  should  see  New  York.” 

“I’d  love  to,”  I said. 

We  arrived  at  a clapboard  house  somewhere  in  Maryland,  overlooking 
a valley  filled  with  crisp,  white  snow,  several  miles  off  the  main  road. 
Mangiara  told  me  it  belonged  to  a friend. 


118 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


He  built  a fire  in  the  hearth  and  made  the  featherbed,  piling  it  high 
with  patchwork  quilts.  We  made  love  there,  for  the  first  time,  sinking 
deep  into  the  mattress’  down,  amid  geometric  patterns  and  the  smell  of 
woodsmoke  and  camphor,  a winter  wind  whistling  past  the  windows  and 
rattling  the  panes. 

A few  days  later  the  Pentagon  finally  gave  in,  and  I was  admitted  to 
work  on  what  had  been  America’s  deepest  military  secret.  I found  myself 
frantic  with  activity,  working  around  the  clock,  sometimes,  down  there 
in  the  bowels  of  the  Pentagon,  peering  at  amber  screens  under  blue 
fluorescent  lights.  Actually,  it  made  a pleasant  change  from  sitting 
around  twiddling  my  thumbs  and  cursing  the  military  mentality.  I’d 
been  looking  for  a challenge;  well,  trying  to  bash  the  antiquated  U.S. 
computer  system  into  something  like  modern  utility  was  a challenge  of 
the  first  order. 

I didn’t  have  much  time  for  Mangiara;  he  took  it  hard,  the  poor  sod. 
Whenever  I got  back  to  my  room  at  the  embassy,  there  were  always  little 
plaintive  messages  awaiting  me.  I took  pity  on  him,  and  we  went  out 
several  times,  but  I could  tell  he  was  chafing.  He  wanted  more. 

But  I was  determined  not  to  take  the  relationship  too  seriously;  long- 
distance romances  rarely  work  out,  I knew.  Hadn’t  Irina  fallen  for  the 
actor — Mischa,  was  that  his  name?  He  had  moved  to  Vladivostok,  to  join 
the  Soviet  cinema  on  the  booming  Pacific  Coast,  and  though  they  had 
tried  to  carry  on  the  romance,  by  phone  and  electronic  mail  and  super- 
sonic jet,  they  had  gradually  drifted  away.  How  much  less  likely  a long- 
term romance  with  an  American  seemed;  certainly,  I had  no  intention 
of  staying  in  Washington  forever. 

One  night,  Mangiara  asked,  “Can  I see  my  rival?” 

“Your  what?”  I said. 

“Uni vac,”  he  said. 

“You  think  of  the  machine  as  your  rival?” 

“Well,  you  spend  more  time  with  it  than  with  me.” 

I had  to  laugh.  “You’re  a better  conversationalist,”  I said,  “a  lot  hand- 
somer, and  much  better  in  bed.  You  have  nothing  to  fear.” 

Mangiara  drifted  off  to  sleep;  I studied  his  face  affectionately.  Still,  I 
told  him  silently,  my  work  is  my  life;  you  don’t  become  an  academician 
by  thirty  without  dedication.  You  are  an  amusement,  my  dear,  my  hand- 
some American.  If  you  and  Univac  are  rivals,  Univac,  too,  has  nothing 
to  fear. 

“Strip,”  I told  Mangiara. 

He  looked  uneasily  around,  at  the  bare,  white  walls,  the  smell  of  anti- 
septic rising  from  the  tiled  floor.  “You  want  to  screw  here?” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


119 


“No,  pretty  boy,”  I said.  “You  can’t  go  in  to  see  Univac  dressed  like 
that.” 

He  looked  down  at  his  charcoal  suit.  “My  tie  crooked?”  he  asked. 

I sighed.  “Don’t  be  obtuse.  Even  a mote  of  dust  can  endanger  the 
circuitry,  get  into  the  drives;  we  operate  under  clean-room  conditions. 
Out  of  those  clothes,  and  into  the  shower.” 

He  insisted  on  privacy,  which  I found  rather  funny;  not  like  I hadn’t 
seen  him  in  the  buff.  He  met  me  by  the  airlock  in  the  uniform  of  the 
computer  professional:  lab  smock,  hair  cap,  disposable  paper  booties  over 
the  shoes.  We  cycled  the  airlock. 

“Is  this  really  necessary?”  he  asked. 

“Yup.  The  chamber’s  at  positive  pressure,  to  prevent  dust  infiltration.” 

The  lock’s  inner  door  opened  onto  the  elevator.  We  took  it  down,  down, 
for  long  moments. 

“Must  be  a long  way  down,”  said  Mangiara. 

“It’s  supposed  to  be  able  to  withstand  a direct  nuclear  hit,”  I said. 
“Getting  Univac  was  top  priority  for  the  Strategic  Rocket  Forces,  you 
know.” 

The  elevator  opened  with  a clang.  We  left  for  the  metal  catwalk.  Man- 
giara peered  over  the  railing  and  down  into  the  Well.  Down  it  stretched, 
dozens  of  levels.  On  each,  corridors  led  off  past  metal  frames  holding 
circuit  boards  and  cables.  Lab-coated  technicians  scurried  everywhere, 
pulling  defective  boards  and  replacing  them,  testing  connections,  run- 
ning diagnostics.  Against  the  far  wall  were  the  tape  and  disk  drives, 
bank  after  bank,  alert  lights  blinking,  tape  reels  whirring  away.  The 
whole  place  thrummed  with  the  air-conditioning,  the  whirring  drives, 
the  fans  cooling  individual  peripherals.  It  was  a cavern,  a man-made 
cavern,  the  largest  man-made  structure,  by  volume,  in  the  world,  or  so 
I’d  been  told — the  Big  Brain’s  chamber  was  smaller,  but  then,  Soviet 
electronics  are  more  highly  miniaturized.  I couldn’t  imagine  what  the 
Well  had  cost,  to  blast  out  from  the  bedrock  underneath  Washington. 

“My  God,”  said  Mangiara. 

“No  reactionary  sentiments  here,  please,”  I said.  “Credit  human  ge- 
nius, not  some  infantile  father-myth.” 

“Just  a figure  of  speech,”  he  muttered.  “What  is  it  all  /or?” 

I led  the  way  down  the  walk,  shoes  clanging  against  the  grating.  I 
pulled  a circuit  board — multiple  redundancy  meant  I’d  do  no  harm. 
“Looks  like  any  electronic  device,”  Mangiara  said. 

“Sure,”  I said.  “Just  a breadboard,  capacitors  and  resistors;  these  big 
black  ones  are  memory  chips.  Individually,  nothing  much;  put  them 
together,  and  it’s  the  second  most  powerful  processor  in  the  solar  system.” 

‘These  are  all  memory  chips?” 


120 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


I shrugged.  “Memory  chips,  modulator/demodulators  for  phone  connec- 
tions, peripheral  control  devices.  Univac’s  the  second  most  complicated 
machine  ever  conceived  by  the  human  mind;  I’m  not  sure  any  single 
person  could  tell  you  what  everything  in  the  Well  does.” 

“What’s  the  most  complicated — never  mind.  The  Big  Brain  in  Moscow, 
I assume.” 

I nodded. 

Mangiara  shivered.  “This  is  where  the  FBI  keeps  its  files.” 

“All  the  U.S.  military  and  quasi-military  agencies.  Come  on.” 

We  took  the  elevator  several  levels  down.  Mangiara  looked  a little 
drawn.  We  foimd  a terminal,  and  I signed  on. 

“Here’s  your  credit  record,”  I said,  pulling  it  up.  I studied  it  for  a 
moment;  “Pretty  clean.” 

Mangiara  grunted.  “Anyone  can  do  that?” 

“No,”  I said.  “But  I am  a big  cheese  here,  you  know.  1 can  do  just  about 
an}d:hing  short  of  shutting  Univac  down.” 

“This  kind  of  thing  could  be  abused,”  he  said. 

I sighed.  “The  people’s  state  does  not  abuse  the  people’s  trust.” 

“Tell  that  to  Stalin,”  he  said. 

“A  transitional  stage  to  true  socialism.  And,  hum,  here’s  your  FBI 
dossier.” 

Mangiara  turned  white,  and  put  his  hand  over  the  screen. 

“Don’t  be  silly,  Frank,”  I said.  “I  could  read  it  any  time.” 

“Promise  me  you  won’t,”  he  said. 

I shrugged.  “If  you  like,”  I said.  But  I did  later,  of  course — well, 
wouldn’t  you?  Dear  Frank  had  a homosexual  fling  during  college,  it 
seems.  Fairly  petty,  as  mortal  secrets  go. 

“Is  the  Big  Brain  much  larger?”  Mangiara  asked. 

I fluttered  my  hand;  comme  ci,  comme  ga.  “Two  orders  of  magnitude 
or  so.” 

“A  factor  of  a hundred?”  Frank  said,  sounding  impressed. 

“Not  so  much,  really,”  I said.  “'Two  generations  of  technology;  you’re 
at  most  a decade  behind  us.  And  Univac  would  be  larger  if  it  weren’t 
for  the  civilian  machine  in  Boston,  you  know;  it  was  foolish  for  your 
government  to  build  a separate  civilian  processor.” 

He  shrugged.  “It  would  have  endangered  military  security  to  use  Uni- 
vac for  civilian  ends,”  he  said.  “Besides,  what’s  the  big  deal?” 

“Isn’t  it  obvious?”  I said.  “It  all  comes  down  to  cost  per  operation;  two 
separate  processors  are  more  than  double  the  expense  of  one  large  one. 
A large  one  can  time-share  tasks,  and  therefore  is  always  busy;  small 
ones  spend  many  cycles  idle.  And  there  are  economies  in  programming, 
in  data  consistency,  in  maintenance,  in  manufacture.” 

“I  see,”  said  Mangiara  thoughtfully.  “It’s  like  central  planning.” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


121 


I blinked  at  him.  “What?” 

“Competing  firms  duplicate  effort;  centralization  is  always  efficient. 
Smoothly  increasing  economies  of  scale.  Central  planners  can  gather  and 
process  information  more  efficiently  than  scattered,  individual  business- 
men; a central  computer  does  the  same.” 

“Smoothly  increasing  economies  of  scale,  yes,”  I said  slowly.  “I  hadn’t 
seen  the  parallel,  before.” 

The  American  government  was  like  a weathervane,  twisting  this  way 
and  that  as  public  opinion  moved  in  its  random.  Brownian  way.  President 
Jackson  kept  on  trying  to  find  a nonexistent  “third  way”  between  social- 
ism and  the  market;  the  economy  continued  its  decline.  I’d  been  admitted 
to  Univac  during  one  of  the  warmer  moments  in  U.S./Soviet  relations; 
then,  things  got  chillier  again.  The  military  started  forcing  me  to  clear 
every  change  to  Univac’s  software;  and  that  meant  endless,  time-wasting 
obstruction.  Work  was  increasingly  frustrating;  and  so,  I began  to  spend 
more  time  with  Mangiara. 

I wasn’t  getting  much  sleep;  too  many  late  nights.  I found  myself 
napping  on  the  job  between  compiles.  The  constant  white  noise  of  the  air 
conditioning  was  annoyingly  soothing.  I think  some  of  my  co-workers 
caught  me  asleep,  but  were  too  much  in  awe  of  the  august  Soviet  acade- 
mician to  make  an3dhing  of  it. 

One  night,  as  Frank  was  drifting  off  to  sleep,  he  used  the  L word. 

And  I found  myself  wakeful.  I did,  I realized,  feel  an  inordinate  fond- 
ness for  him.  “You’ll  know  when  you’re  in  love,”  my  mother  had  always 
said;  a blatant  lie.  A damned  slippery  thing,  love.  But  I realized  I could 
no  longer  dismiss  our  relationship  as  a fling. 

One  day,  Frank  called  me  at  work.  “Do  you  still  want  to  see  New 
York?”  he  asked. 

“You  bet,”  I said. 

“I’ve  wangled  an  assignment  there,”  he  said.  “Actually  it’s  one  I think 
you  can  help  me  with.” 

He  explained. 

“Okay,”  I said.  “I’ll  bring  my  terminal.  Tell  them  to  secure  a line  to 
Moscow,  and  keep  it  open  for  our  arrival.”  With  America’s  rickety  tele- 
phone system,  I knew,  it  might  take  hours  to  obtain  a connection  to  the 
Big  Brain  otherwise. 

Frank  got  us  a private  car  on  the  train — “Being  in  the  Department 
does  have  its  perquisites,”  he  said,  somewhat  apologetically.  I shrugged; 
might  as  well  take  advantage  of  such  bourgeois  pleasures  while  they 
lasted.  It  was  plush,  mahogany  and  velvet,  Negro  attendants  in  crisp 
white  coats,  champagne  in  silver  buckets. 


122 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


It  was  amazing  how  much  of  the  land  between  Washington  and  New 
York  was  unpeopled;  forests  and  fields  stretching  on  forever,  pale  green 
now  with  the  first  growth  of  spring.  America’s  poverty,  the  rarity  of  cars, 
had  at  least  spared  it  the  curse  of  suburban  sprawl. 

Pennsylvania  Station  was  a rococo  Glothic  structure,  obviously  decades 
old,  grimy,  like  every  building  in  coal-burning  America,  but  quite  charm- 
ing, in  its  way.  That  was  another  thing,  it  occurred  to  me,  America  had 
been  spared  through  its  poverty;  in  the  Soviet  Union,  we  had  lost  so 
many  similar  grand  old  structures,  torn  down  in  the  name  of  progress. 

The  offices  of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Corporation — how  absurdly 
romantic  a name,  how  amazing  that  so  archaic  a thing  as  a limited 
liability  corporation  should  still  exist! — were  in  the  building,  in  a warren 
of  offices  above  the  main  chamber.  We  were  quickly  ushered  into  the 
president’s  office. 

It  was  quite  as  grand  as  one  might  expect;  the  portrait  of  some  great 
robber  baron,  white-haired  and  mustachioed,  several  times  larger  than 
life,  glared  down  on  the  desk  of  his  successor.  Oriental  carpets  swept 
across  hardwood  floors;  the  desk  itself  looked  as  if  it  could  accommodate 
a regiment. 

“Mr.  Mangiara,”  said  the  president,  rising  from  a leather  armchair. 
He  was  balding,  in  his  fifties,  clad  in  a Savile  Row  suit  with  collar  so 
tight  that  flesh  bulged  out  above  it.  “And — Madame  Nazarian,  I take 
it?” 

I shook  his  hand.  “Academician  Nazarian,”  I said.  “Or  ‘comrade’  will 
do.” 

The  president’s  eyebrows  danced.  “I’ll  refrain  from  ‘comrade,’  if  you 
will,”  he  said.  “The  Engineers’  Union  would  about  die  laughing,  if  they 
heard  me  calling  anyone  ‘comrade.’  Mr.  Mangiara  says  you  have  a dem- 
onstration for  me?” 

“Is  the  line  to  Moscow  open?” 

He  turned  to  a secretary,  who  sat  by  the  desk  with  a telephone.  She 
nodded.  I went  to  the  phone,  took  my  terminal  out  of  its  case,  set  it  up 
on  the  desk,  and  wired  the  modulator /demodulator  into  the  phone. 

“What  is  this  device?”  asked  the  president. 

“A  remote  terminal,”  I said  absently,  as  I signed  onto  the  Brain. 

“Chinese,  I assume?”  the  president  said. 

I nodded;  the  best  terminals  were  still  made  in  the  Soviet  Union,  but 
the  Chinese  made  perfectly  adequate  ones.  Colored  pictures  unfurled  on 
the  screen. 

“Before  I start,”  I said,  “I’d  like  to  ask  a few  questions.” 

“Certainly,”  said  the  president,  taking  a seat  facing  the  screen. 

“On  average,  what  portion  of  your  freight  containers  are  idle?” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


123 


He  blinked.  “At  any  given  time,  roughly  40  percent  of  the  total.” 

I nodded.  “And  if  you  have,  say,  two  carloads  of  steel  waiting  at  Red 
Hook,  one  bound  for  Allentown  and  another  for  Newark,  how  do  you 
determine  when  they  get  picked  up  and  how  they  get  switched  to  the 
right  trains?” 

He  shook  his  head.  “I’ve  got  a corps  of  engineers  sitting  downstairs 
with  calculators,  bashing  keys  like  mad  in  an  effort  to  figure  that  out. 
Figuring  how  to  switch  loads  around  efficiently  is  the  key  to  profitability, 
and  it’s  no  trivial  task.” 

“You  don’t  use  a computer?”  Frank  asked. 

“My  good  man,”  said  the  president.  “We  are  not  the  government.  The 
Penn  may  be  a profitable  road,  but  we  can’t  afford  aircraft  carriers,  lunar 
probes,  or  computers.” 

“Good,”  I said.  “Here’s  the  Soviet  rail  net;  I’m  centering  on  Moscow.” 

On  the  screen  appeared  a square,  a hundred  kilometers  on  a side.  Rail 
lines  in  blue,  moving  trains  in  red.  By  various  stations  were  blinking 
lights.  I clicked  on  a light;  up  sprang  a window.  “Chimki  station,”  I read. 
“Three  loads  grain,  one  of  goods  from  the  Red  Star  Consumer  Electronics 
factory  in  Yaroslavl.  Let’s  look  at  that.”  I clicked  on  it;  up  sprang  another 
window.  “Slated  for  pickup  by  the  fast  freight  from  Leningrad  at  06:12 
hours;  switched  at  Moscow  for  the  08:48  to  Baku;  and  then  . . .” 

“My  God,”  said  the  president,  staring  at  the  screen  entranced.  “Can  I 
change  it,  send  it  to  Berlin,  say?” 

“You  could  if  you  were  in  the  Ministry  of  Transport,”  I said.  “I’m  not 
authorized  to  do  that.” 

“You  can  see  the  whole  net?” 

I clicked;  the  screen  showed  the  whole  Union,  trunk  lines  in  red,  width 
of  each  line  showing  the  volume  of  freight  in  transit  at  the  moment.  They 
pulsed  slowly  over  time.  I clicked  in  on  the  Pacific  coast,  Vladivostok  and 
its  burgeoning  suburbs,  the  busy  lines  over  the  Amur  and  into  thriving 
China. 

“This  is  an  amazing  toy,”  said  the  president.  “But  what’s  the  point?” 

“This  lets  you  monitor  the  rail  net,”  I said,  “but  the  net  is  operated,  of 
course,  by  the  Brain — every  switch,  every  station,  every  connection.  To- 
tal container  utilization  is  ...”  I clacked  at  the  keyboard  briefly,  “93.4 
percent  at  the  moment.”  'The  final  digit  flickered  up  and  down;  random 
fluctuations,  really,  carloads  being  switched  across  the  whole  Soviet 
network. 

“That’s  impossible,”  the  president  said  flatly. 

“Not  at  all,”  I said.  “You  are  trying  to  solve  complex  transit-time 
equations  on  mechanical  calculators;  it  is  absurd.  The  Big  Brain  can 
perform  quadrillions  of  operations  a second,  more  by  the  day  as  we  add 


124 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


capacity.  Optimizing  the  rail  net  uses  a tiny  fraction  of  its  processing 
time.  You  could  never  afford  the  computing  power  yourself.” 

He  grunted.  “We  still  won’t  if  we’re  nationalized,”  he  pointed  out. 

“No,”  I said,  “but  even  if  Univac  is  a decade  behind  the  Big  Brain  in 
technology,  it  can  do  a far  better  job  than  people  punching  buttons.” 

“Univac — is  that  possible?”  he  said,  turning  to  Frank. 

Frank  nodded.  “Of  course,”  he  said.  “With  the  Cold  War  over,  it’s  being 
turned  to  civilian  use.” 

The  president  mulled  that  over  for  a moment.  “And  if,  say,  the  Feds 
nationalize  the  Erie  road  and  the  New  York  Central,  Univac  will  opti- 
mize their  operations.  If  the  Penn  stays  independent,  we — we’ll  lose  our 
shirts.  We’ll  be  out-competed.” 

“You  must  not  think  in  those  terms,”  I said.  “It  is  not  competition.  It  is 
planning.  Separate  companies  duplicate  effort;  competition  itself  wastes 
resources.” 

To  my  surprise,  he  almost  snarled  at  me.  “Competition  is  the  American 
way,”  he  said  intensely.  “We’re  a nation  built  on  individualism.  Change 
France  from  a monarchy  to  a republic  to  socialism,  it  stays  France.  But 
what  is  America  without  individual  rights,  without  capitalism?” 

“We’re  going  to  have  to  find  out,”  Frank  said  gently.  “There  is  no 
alternative.  The  verdict  of  history  is  in,  and  it  says:  Central  planning 
works.  Capitalism  doesn’t.” 

The  president  took  a ragged  breath.  “I  don’t  have  a choice,  do  I?”  he 
said  bitterly.  “Either  we  accept  nationalization,  or  we’ll  be  run  into  the 
ground.” 

Frank  sighed.  “No,”  he  said  reluctantly,  “there’s  no  point  in  running 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  into  the  ground.  If  we  have  to,  we’ll  national- 
ize it  forcibly.  But  we’d  rather  have  management’s  cooperation.” 

The  president  stared  at  that  looming  portrait  on  the  wall  for  a long 
time.  At  last,  he  said,  “If  you  don’t  mind.  I’d  like  to  ask  you  to  leave.  I 
have  a great  deal  to  discuss  with  the  board,  and  with  my  subordinates.” 

I loved  New  York. 

The  contrast  with  Washington  was  stark.  Here,  healthy  unions,  power- 
ful local  government,  and  a strong  civil-service  ethic  had  done  their 
best  to  create  local  socialism  even  under  the  capitalist  government  that 
savaged  the  rest  of  the  nation.  The  results  were  everywhere,  in  the 
hopeful  faces  of  children  departing  the  city’s  excellent  public  schools,  in 
the  gleaming  corridors  of  its  municipal  hospital  system,  in  the  pristine 
streets,  even  in  the  tiny,  by  American  standards,  rate  of  crime. 

Oh,  the  city  wasn’t  spared  America’s  misery  entirely;  there  were  home- 
less everywhere,  but  at  least  here  they  were  served  by  the  city’s  first- 
rate  welfare  system.  And  the  lack  of  economic  opportimity  meant  the 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


125 


products  of  the  city’s  superb  educational  system  were,  more  often  than 
not,  forced  to  emigrate  to  find  work  that  befitted  their  skills.  By  Ameri- 
can standards,  the  city  was  well  off,  but  by  the  standards  of  the  socialist 
world,  it  was  still  quite  poor. 

Still,  even  that  poverty  had  a charm.  Here,  there  were  the  shabby 
bars,  the  small  neighborhoods  with  strong  sense  of  community,  the  com- 
fortable blue-collar  feeling  I remembered  from  the  Moscow  of  my 
youth — a Moscow  now  much  altered  by  yuppification. 

And  though  New  York  lagged  far  behind  London  as  a capital  of  the 
Anglophone  world’s  intellectual  life,  here  there  was  Broadway,  publish- 
ing, the  remnants  of  America’s  film  industry  in  flight  from  collapsing 
California,  first  rate  restaurants  and  museums.  It  was  enormous  fun, 
visiting  New  York,  as  a Soviet;  with  the  ruble  so  strong  and  the  dollar 
so  weak,  everything  cost  practically  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  wonderful  seeing  the  Matisses  at  the  Museum  of  Modern  Art; 
so  many  masterpieces  had  been  locked  away  behind  the  Iron  Curtain  for 
so  many  years.  We  hit  Broadway  every  night,  seeing  things  by  obscure 
local  playwrights  like  Neil  Simon  and  George  Lucas,  as  well  as  the  usual 
Lloyd  Webber  and  Brecht-Weill  standards.  We  browsed  for  hours  in  the 
myriad  used  bookstores  on  Fourth  Avenue,  limched  at  the  sidewalk  cafes 
among  the  glitter  of  Times  Square,  and  even  chartered  a boat  to  tour  the 
harbor  and  the  sadly  decayed  ruins  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty. 

And  we  ate  our  way  across  the  city,  from  Lutfece  to  sidewalk  hot  dog 
carts,  from  Sweets  at  the  Fulton  Fish  Market  to  Sylvia’s  in  Harlem. 

On  'Thursday  night,  we  rode  the  subway  to  Astoria,  in  Queens.  The 
train  moved  swiftly,  silently  under  the  river. 

“Amazing  that  you  have  such  good  subways,  but  can’t  build  a decent 
car,”  I told  Frank. 

He  shrugged.  “The  city  has  run  the  subways  for  decades,”  he  said. 
“One  of  the  few  planned  institutions  in  a largely  chaotic  economy.” 

'The  Astoria  station,  in  recognition  of  the  ethnic  background  of  the 
region’s  inhabitants,  was  decorated  in  Greek  fashion:  Corinthian  col- 
umns, murals  in  patterns  copied  from  ancient  vases,  wide  marble  steps 
leading  upward. 

We  walked  through  busy  streets,  where  children  played  stickball  until 
their  mothers  called  them  in  to  dinner,  to  what  Frank  claimed  was  the 
best  Greek  restaurant  in  America. 

Certainly  the  bouzouki  music  was  joyful  enough;  Frank  ordered  us 
drinks,  pointedly  avoiding  the  retsina.  As  we  waited  for  the  calamari, 
he  said,  “I  had  an  idea  the  other  day.” 

“Is  that  unusual?”  I asked. 

“Thank  you  very  much.  Academician,”  he  said.  “There’s  a brain  behind 

126  GREG  COSTIKYAN 


this  pretty  face,  you  know.  I was  thinking:  what  if  centralized  informa- 
tion processing  were  inefficient?” 

“Say  what?” 

He  spread  his  hands.  “It’s  easy  enough  to  devise  a rationale,”  he  said. 
“Let’s  suppose  that  information  is  best  handled  locally,  that  centralizing 
it  simply  overloads  the  people  at  the  top  with  too  much  data.  Suppose 
that  individual  managers,  familiar  with  the  problems  they  face  every 
day,  make  better  decisions  than  remote  managers  at  headquarters.  Sup- 
pose that  competition  works  the  way  the  old  classical  economists 
thought,  to  drive  down  prices  and  drive  out  the  inefficient;  that  govern- 
ment monopoly  is  no  better  than  private.  . . .” 

“You  mean,  suppose  capitalism  works  better  than  Marxism,”  I said. 
“Patently,  it  doesn’t.  You  can’t  set  up  controlled  experiments  in  econom- 
ics, but  you  can  look  at  what  happened  in  the  past,  and  everything  since 
the  end  of  the  Great  Patriotic  War  says  socialism  is  the  better  way.” 

“Elementary,  my  dear  Engels,”  he  said.  “But  just  suppose.  America 
would  have  won  the  Cold  War.” 

“Ah!”  I said.  “This  is  an  exercise  in  alternate  history.  But  you’re  vary- 
ing natural  law,  rather  than  a particular  historical  event.  Interesting. 
Germany  would  unify  under  the  Federal  Republic,  Britain  would  be  an 
economic  laggard  instead  of  a powerhouse,  the  population  of  the  Soviet 
Pacific  would  still  be  under  a million. . . .” 

“And  that  of  California  would  approach  thirty  million,”  he  said.  “Los 
Angeles,  not  Vladivostok,  would  be  the  film  capital  of  the  world.” 

“Let’s  not  get  carried  away,”  I said.  “China  would  be  a backwater,  and 
— why  not? — Japan  the  great  economic  success  story  of  the  century.” 

“Who’s  getting  carried  away  now?”  he  said.  “What  about  computers?” 

I blinked.  “What  about  them?” 

“If  local  managers  work  better  than  central  planners,  then  won’t  small 
computers  work  better  than  a big  central  one?” 

“You  mean,  distributed  processing  would  work  better  than  time-shar- 
ing,” I mused.  “The  cost-per-MIPS  curve  would  be  the  opposite  of  our 
world;  little  machines  would  prevail.  There’d  be  a computer  for  every 
company,  perhaps  several — ” 

“Or  one  jjer  person,”  said  Frank. 

“Per  person?”  I said.  “That’s  absurd;  a computer  on  every  desk?  The 
average  person’s  bookkeeping  needs  are  pretty  minor.  What  would  people 
use  them  for?” 

“Who  knows?”  he  said.  “We  don’t  know  what  software  people  would 
devise  for  such  machines,  because  we  haven’t  had  the  need  or  oppor- 
tunity.” 

“The  mind  boggles,”  I said.  The  calamari  came,  and  we  ate  for  a while. 
“Well,”  I said,  “thank  Marx  your  world  is  mere  fantasy.” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


127 


“Why?”  Frank  asked. 

“Would  you  really  want  capitalism  to  win  out  over  socialism?  The 
poor  ignored,  the  environment  raped,  everyone  living  under  a constant 
barrage  of  commercial  blandishment?  I realize  times  are  hard,  in  the 
West,  but  it  is  all  for  the  best.” 

Frank  said,  “Some  people  aren’t  too  happy  that  civil  liberties  must  be 
sacrificed  to  progress.” 

I waved  my  fork.  “Can’t  be  helped,”  I said.  “There  can  be  no  right  to 
property,  because  property  is  theft;  no  right  to  free  speech,  if  that  means 
promulgating  lies.” 

We  left  the  subway  at  Columbus  Circle,  detouring  through  Central 
Park  on  our  way  back  to  the  Plaza.  We  walked  hand  in  hand  past  fragrant 
forsythia.  The  park  was  almost  crowded,  other  late-night  strollers  taking 
in  the  soft  spring  air.  We  passed  a policeman,  twirling  his  nightstick  as 
he  walked  his  beat;  he  beamed  at  us.  “All  the  world  loves  lovers,”  Frank 
whispered,  nuzzling  my  ear. 

“Frank,”  I said,  “have  you  given  any  thought  to  what  we’ll  do  when 
my  stint  here  ends?” 

“I’ve  tried  not  to,”  he  said,  kissing  a line  down  my  neck. 

“Stop  it,”  I said.  “I’m  serious.” 

“I’m  sure  you  could  get  a job  here,”  Frank  said.  “There’s  no  one  in  the 
country  who  knows  what  you  know.” 

“No  doubt,”  I said.  “But  I don’t  think  I could  stand  Washington  for 
very  long.” 

“What  about  New  York?” 

“Better,”  I admitted.  “But  I have  a career  back  home,  you  know.  You’d 
like  Moscow,  Frank.” 

Frank  scratched  an  ear.  “What  could  I do  there?”  he  said.  “I  don’t  have 
any  particular  technical  skills,  I don’t  speak  the  language.  . . .” 

“At  least  you’d  be  a citizen,”  I said. 

There  was  a pause.  “Nadia,”  he  said.  “I  do  believe  you’ve  just  proposed.” 

I blinked;  I guess  I had. 

“Ex-tree!”  a newsboy  shouted.  “Airborne  occupies  Capitol!  Reeeeedal- 
labouuuuit!” 

The  coup  had  begun. 

“I’ve  got  to  get  back  to  Washington,”  Frank  said. 

“I’m  coming  with  you,”  I said. 

“No!  Absolutely  not.  You  must  go  to  the  Soviet  embassy  here.”  There 
was  one  in  New  York,  of  course,  representing  the  USSR  to  the  United 
Nations. 

“Why  shouldn’t  I come?”  I demanded. 


128 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


“You  don’t  know  what  will  happen,”  he  said  grimly.  “This  might  be 
over  tomorrow,  or  it  might  be  the  beginning  of  a civil  war.  Either  way, 
Soviet  citizens  are  going  to  be  at  risk.” 

“It’s  not  like  I’m  KGB,”  I protested.  “I’m  just  a scientist.  Why  would — ” 

“You’ll  be  safer  here  in  New  York,  and  safer  still  at  the  embassy.  Why 
would  you  want  to  go  to  Washington,  anyway?  They  won’t  let  you  in  the 
Pentagon,  you  know;  you  won’t  be  able  to  do  any  work.” 

“I  didn’t  come  to  America  to  be  safe,”  I said.  “If  that’s  what  I wanted, 
I would  have  stayed  in  Moscow.” 

“This  isn’t  a game,  Nadia!”  Frank  said.  “They  kill  people!” 

I had  no  argument  for  that;  there  were  at  least  a dozen  dead,  in  the 
coup’s  first  hours. 

“I’ll  stay  if  you  stay,”  I said. 

Frank  hesitated;  “I — I can’t,”  he  said. 

“Why  not?” 

He  sighed,  and  said,  somewhat  self-deprecatingly,  “Now  is  the  time 
for  all  good  men  to  come  to  the  aid  of  their  country.” 

I grew  alarmed.  “What  the  hell  does  that  mean?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  said,  spreading  hands.  “Maybe  nothing;  maybe 
there’s  nothing  to  be  done.  But  if  they  get  away  with  this,  it’s  back  into 
the  deep  freeze,  America  digging  itself  a deeper  grave.  Do  you  think 
Radey  will  just  cave  in?  And  what  about  the  president?  I can’t  imagine 
the  junta  has  his  support.” 

“I  see,”  I said.  “You  want  the  little  woman  safe  so  you  can  go  off  and 
play  at  revolution.  The  phrase  ‘sexist  pig’  springs  to  mind.” 

He  gave  me  a lop-sided  smile.  “A  man’s  gotta  do  what  a man’s  gotta 
do.” 

“Stuff  it,”  I said. 

We’d  still  be  arguing,  there  in  our  room  at  the  Plaza,  if  I hadn’t  beaten 
a tactical  retreat.  I let  him  go,  letting  him  think  I’d  decamp  to  the 
embassy.  I intended  to  follow  him,  on  the  next  available  train. 

As  I was  packing,  I got  a call  from  Ambassador  Vassilikov. 

“Academician,”  he  said,  “good.  I’m  glad  we  caught  you  still  in  New 
York.” 

“Yes,  Ambassador,”  I said.  “What  is  it?” 

“The  Soviet  government  has  issued  an  advisory,  urging  all  Soviet  citi- 
zens either  to  leave  the  country  or  seek  asylum  at  the  embassy.  I suggest 
you  go  to  the  embassy  in  New  York;  I’ve  informed  Ambassador  Chemi- 
kov  that  you’ll  be  coming,  and  they — ” 

“Thank  you  for  your  concern.  Ambassador,”  I said,  “but  I intend  to 
return  to  Washington,  to  witness  these  historic  events  first  hand.” 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


129 


There  was  silence  on  the  line,  for  a while.  “Academician,”  Vassilikov 
said,  “you  are  a highly  educated  woman.  The  government  of  the  Union 
of  Soviet  Socialist  Republics  has  invested  hundreds  of  thousands  of  rubles 
in  your  skills.” 

“And  what  of  it?”  I said. 

“We  have  no  intention  of  risking  that  investment.  I am  authorized  to 
order  you  to  go  to  the  embassy.” 

I felt  a chill.  He  had  not  actually  issued  the  order;  if  he  did,  it  would 
become  a permanent  blot  on  my  record. 

“I  understand.  Ambassador.” 

“You  will  go?” 

“No.” 

“Academician  Nazarian,”  he  said.  “You  do  not  have  the  right  to  defy 
the  state.  Your  duty  is  to  serve  the  people,  not  to  act  on  whim.” 

He  was  absolutely  in  the  right;  there  is  no  place  for — for  individual 
liberty,  as  Frank  would  have  called  it — in  the  socialist  order.  I was 
privileged  by  intelligence  and  education,  and  by  my  very  privilege,  com- 
pelled to  serve.  I was  unable  to  respond. 

“Academician,”  the  ambassador  said,  “I  am  ordering  you  to  go  to  the 
embassy.  Do  you  understand?” 

“Yes,”  I whispered. 

“Will  you  comply?” 

“No,”  I said. 

I put  the  receiver  down,  feeling  sick. 

There  went  my  career. 

Union  Station  had  become  the  nerve  center  of  the  resistance;  Senator 
Radey  ate  and  slept  there,  surrounded  by  half  the  Congress  and  a sub- 
stantial part  of  Washington’s  population,  rallying  in  resistance  to  the 
fascist  regime.  From  across  the  country,  people  came  by  rail  to  join  them, 
sleeping  in  the  surrounding  streets  despite  the  chill  April  air.  It  was  a 
precarious  time;  not  a mile  distant,  the  junta’s  troops  guarded  the  Capitol 
and  the  White  House.  Among  the  communists,  there  were  only  light 
weapons;  a few  rifles,  rather  more  handguns.  If  the  fascists  chose  to 
attack,  the  resistance  could  be  crushed  in  an  afternoon. 

But  the  junta  seemed  paralyzed,  unable  to  move.  They  were  seemingly 
surprised  at  the  strength  of  the  resistance;  perhaps  they  had  expected 
general  support.  Certainly,  President  Jackson  and  his  half-hearted  re- 
forms enjoyed  no  great  popularity;  but  the  junta  had  misread  the  nature 
of  the  people’s  discontent.  There  was  no  desire  for  a return  to  the  days 
of  the  military-industrial  complex,  no  nostalgia  for  nuclear  terror  and 
gradual  decline.  To  most  people,  the  communist  program  still  seemed 
too  radical;  but  there  was  even  less  support  for  a military  regime. 


130 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


They  might  have  succeeded,  if  Jackson  had  come  out  in  their  support; 
but  he  remained  silent,  a prisoner  at  Camp  David. 

Frank  was  furious  when  he  learned  I was  there.  But  I was  determined 
to  stay. 

My  skills  even  came  in  handy;  I had  my  terminal,  and  dialed  into 
Univac.  The  military  was  divided;  indeed,  shortly  after  I arrived,  several 
tanks  from  the  7th  Cavalry  arrived,  and  took  up  stations  protecting 
the  station.  Perhaps  Univac’s  system  operators  sympathized  with  the 
resistance;  perhaps,  in  the  confusion,  the  junta  had  merely  neglected  to 
order  restrictions  on  public  access  to  Univac. 

Whatever  the  case,  with  my  account’s  privileges,  it  was  a simple  mat- 
ter to  hack  into  the  files  that  recorded  the  junta’s  orders  and  troop  move- 
ments. We  could  see  what  they  were  doing,  virtually  as  they  began  to  do 
it. 

And  we  made  good  use  of  our  intelligence;  no  doubt,  you’ve  seen  the 
footage,  people  lying  down  in  front  of  tanks  to  prevent  their  entry  into 
Washington,  our  people  haranguing  the  advancing  troops  and,  not  infre- 
quently, persuading  them  to  defect. 

It  was  a tense,  glorious  time,  marred  only  by  the  growing  rift  between 
Frank  and  me. 

On  the  afternoon  of  April  10,  Radey  decided  it  was  time  to  make  a 
move.  You’ve  seen  that  speech,  I suppose,  the  senator  clambering  onto  a 
tank  to  harangue  the  crowd — no  doubt  the  most  famous  image  of  the 
April  Revolution. 

No,  the  second  most  famous  one. 

After  the  speech,  he  led  the  way  down  Constitution  Avenue.  Frank 
was  at  the  van;  I had  wanted  to  march  with  him,  but  he  pointedly  refused, 
insisting  I stay  at  Union  Station. 

I was  not  about  to  do  that.  Still,  we  were  widely  separated  in  the  order 
of  march. 

We  skirted  the  troops  surrounding  the  Capitol,  and  headed  west  down 
the  Mall,  past  the  brown  towers  of  the  Smithsonian.  They  say  a hundred 
thousand  people  marched  that  day;  I believe  it.  It  was  a sea  of  humanity, 
moving  across  the  green,  the  vast  Mall  carpeted  with  human  forms. 

At  the  Washington  Monument,  we  turned  right,  walking  through  the 
needle’s  shadow.  We  crossed  Constitution  Avenue  again,  and  walked 
across  the  Ellipse — directly  toward  the  White  House  gate.  I could  glimpse 
it  only  in  snatches,  through  the  crowd  ahead;  I might  be  fool  enough  to 
be  here,  thought  I,  but  I was  not  such  a fool  as  to  be  at  the  front  of  what 
might  quickly  become  a disaster. 

At  the  center  of  the  gate  was  a Patton  tank;  and  behind  the  iron 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


131 


fence  surrounding  the  White  House  were  armed  soldiers  of  the  101st, 
defending  what  had  become  the  junta’s  headquarters. 

“Halt!”  shouted  a soldier  through  a megaphone.  “We  have  orders  to 
defend  this  gate.” 

Radey  shouted  something  in  response;  so  far  back,  I did  not  hear  what 
he  said.  Later,  I learned  he  had  asked  if  they  would  fire  on  fellow 
Americans. 

There  was  silence  for  a moment.  Then,  “We  have  our  orders,”  said  the 
soldier. 

The  crowd  was  motionless  for  a long  moment.  And  then,  it  began  to 
move  forward  again.  Heart  in  throat,  I moved  with  it. 

There  are  moments  frozen  in  time,  instants  that  can  be  remembered 
with  perfect  clarity.  The  sky  was  achingly  blue  above,  the  sun  bright, 
still  high  but  moving  toward  the  west.  Though  the  crowd  had  chanted 
during  the  march,  now  it  was  curiously  silent,  the  red  banners  audibly 
flapping,  the  soft  sound  of  thousands  of  feet  walking  across  grass.  The 
breeze  was  cool,  from  the  southwest,  bearing  the  sweet  scent  of  cherry 
blossoms  from  the  trees  around  the  Tidal  Basin;  indeed,  the  trees  were 
already  beginning  to  shed  their  petals,  and  little  motes  of  pink  skittered 
across  the  grass,  driven  by  the  freshening  breeze.  That  breeze  was  cool 
on  the  skin;  though  the  sun  was  warm,  it  was  April  still.  Though  the 
hiunan  world  might  be  in  turmoil,  the  natural  world  was  calm,  serene. 
So  much  for  Shakespeare. 

Those  at  the  front  neared  the  iron  bars.  It  began  to  appear  that  the 
soldiers’  threat  was  a bluff;  they  seemed  almost  visibly  to  dither,  unpre- 
pared to  face  such  massive  defiance.  . . . 

And  then,  the  quiet  was  shattered  by  a submachinegun’s  staccato  rap. 

The  crowd  gave  almost  an  animal  roar;  and  while  there  might  be 
confusion  at  the  front  of  the  mob,  the  rest  surged  forward.  The  iron  fence 
gave  way,  falling  before  massed  bodies.  . . . 

And  another  gun  rang  out;  another  and  another,  explosion  after  explo- 
sion rattling  all  across  the  line,  panicked  soldiers  firing  wildly  into  the 
mob,  the  noise  punctuated  by  the  tank  cannon’s  boom. 

If  there  are  moments  that  are  frozen  in  time,  so  there  are  moments 
that  are  shattered  into  a thousand  jangling  images.  People  screaming, 
fleeing  in  all  directions;  blood  spraying  across  space,  wounded  dragging 
themselves  desperately  away,  the  slow  or  unwary  trampled  under  foot, 
grass  churned  to  mud,  screams  of  terror  and  moans  of  agony.  I fell  and 
was  trod  upon,  but  suffered  no  worse  than  bruises.  I fled,  I don’t  know 
why,  down  through  West  Potomac  Park. 

Encroaching  night  found  me  squatting  under  Lincoln’s  massive  feet, 
shivering  more  from  remembered  terror  than  the  cold. 

At  last,  I rose  and  walked  to  the  Soviet  embassy  on  16th.  A jeepful  of 


132 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


soldiers  sped  past  me  on  the  way,  but  apparently  decided  that  a single, 
haggard  woman  violating  curfew  was  not  worth  bothering. 

Seven  hundred  people  died  that  day;  the  casualties  were  in  the  thou- 
sands. The  following  morning,  the  TV  showed  helicopter  footage  of  the 
Ellipse  and  the  White  House  lawn,  bodies  still  lying  everywhere,  black 
gouges  in  the  turf  where  tanks  had  passed. 

A thin  tendril  of  smoke  rose  from  the  East  Wing,  which  the  demonstra- 
tors had  set  afire;  but  the  flames  had  soon  been  suppressed. 

I called  Frank’s  number  again  and  again,  but  there  was  no  reply. 

It  was  days  before  I learned:  Frank  was  among  the  dead.  He  had  taken 
a bullet  in  the  gut,  and  had  bled  to  death  there  on  the  lawn.  Washington’s 
ambulance  corps  had,  with  few  exceptions,  been  too  craven  to  rescue  the 
wounded.  With  help,  he  might  have  lived. 

The  storming  of  the  White  House  was,  they  say,  the  turning  point,  the 
moment  when  the  junta  realized  the  scantiness  of  its  support,  when 
public  opinion  crystalized  against  them.  When  President  Jackson  was 
released,  he  condemned  them  thoroughly,  and  that  was  the  coup’s  end. 

And  I;  well,  the  state  has  forgiven  me.  Ambassador  Vassilikov  wept 
when  he  learned  about  Frank;  he  muttered  something  about  “the  Slavic 
soul,”  and  told  me  that  love  is  sufficient  reason  to  defy  the  state — an 
unorthodox  opinion.  “I  shall  remove  any  mention  of  the  incident  from 
your  record,”  he  said,  “if  you  agree  to  tell  your  story  for  publication.” 
And  so  I shall. 

My  sojourn  in  America  has  descended  by  degrees,  from  high  spirits  to 
agony;  if  life  in  Moscow  was  missing  something,  if  it  was  too  smooth,  too 
easy,  well,  the  lack  has  been  remedied,  to  excess.  I am  looking  forward 
to  return. 

But  I am  not  wholly  in  despair. 

America  has  years  of  desolation  to  endure,  and  possibly  rivers  of  blood 
still  to  shed;  even  in  Western  Europe,  the  transition  to  socialism  has 
proven  more  difficult  than  expected,  and  here,  the  market’s  last  bastion, 
it  will  be  more  difficult  still. 

I never  saw  Frank’s  corpse,  not  until  it  rested,  features  composed,  in 
a coffin;  but  I have  an  image  of  it  lying  there  on  the  White  House  lawn, 
atop  the  black  cast-iron  bars  of  the  fallen  fence,  blank  eyes  staring  wildly, 
blood  pooling  on  the  ground.  The  sun  shines,  the  sky  is  blue,  the  breeze 
scatters  pink  cherry  blossoms  across  the  unknowing  form.  The  Japanese 
who  gave  those  trees  would  understand,  I think;  how  very  Oriental,  to 
see  beauty  in  death. 


THE  WEST  IS  RED 


133 


Frank  didn’t  die  in  vain.  The  red  flags  rise  across  America.  The  specter 
of  nuclear  oblivion  haunts  the  world  no  longer;  socialism’s  triumph  prom- 
ises a better  life  for  all.  Beyond  these  times  of  trouble,  we  can  glimpse  a 
future  of  peace,  and  prosperity. 

As  Marx  foretold,  the  victory  of  the  proletariat  is  foreordained.  But  oh, 
it  is  we  who  suffer,  ground  in  history’s  inexorable  wheels. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  it  is  all  worthwhile. 

The  West  is  Red;  and  Frank  Mangiara’s  blood  helped  to  dye  it  so.  • 


NEXT  ISSUE 

We  have  an  exciting,  jam-packed  June  issue  in  store  for 
you  next  month,  one  that  wiii  shuttie  you  through  time  from 
the  distant  past  to  the  turbulent  future,  into  strange  realms 
and  stranger  dimensions,  and  far  across  the  Galaxy  to  sinis- 
ter alien  worlds. 

James  Patrick  Kelly  takes  us  deep  into  a bizarre  future 
and  introduces  us  to  one  of  its  strangest  inhabitants,  the  formi- 
dable "Big  Guy”:  hot  new  writer  Mary  Rosenblum  explores 
the  almost  unbridgeable  gulfs  between  one  world  and  an- 
other, and  between  one  human  soul  and  another,  in  a poign- 
ant new  novella  that  tells  the  story  of  “The  Mermaid’s 
Comb”:  Nebula-and  Hugo-winner  Terry  Bisson  takes  us  out 
for  a wild  ride  that  includes  a hair-raising,  unforgettable  spin 
around  “Dead  Man’s  Curve”:  exciting  new  British  hard-sci- 
ence  writer  Stephen  Baxter  delves  into  “The  Logic  Pool,”  one 
of  the  most  frightening  and  downright  strange  environments 
you’re  ever  likely  to  see  in  science  fiction,  and  comes  out 
with  a story  thafs  right  on  the  Cutting  Edge  of  today’s  scien- 
tific speculation!  Steven  Utley  returns  with  a bittersweet  look 
at  the  events  of  “One  Kansas  Night”:  Steven  Popkes  im- 
merses us  in  an  enigmatic  alien  society  on  a distant  alien 
planet,  as  an  expatriate  Earthman  struggles  to  unravel  a 
deadly  mystery  in  “Whistle  in  the  Dark”:  and  new  writer  Mag- 
gie Flinn  regales  us  with  a wry  and  tasty  entertainment  called 
“On  Dreams:  A Love  Story.”  Plus  an  array  of  columns  and 
features. 

Look  for  our  June  issue  on  sale  on  your  newsstands  on  April 
26, 1994. 


134 


GREG  COSTIKYAN 


135 


returns  to  our  pages  after  far  too  long  an  absence.  Mr.  Aldiss'  last  story  for 
Asimov's,  "The  Difficulties  Involved  in  Photographing  Nix  Olympica," 

/ appeared  in  our  May  1 986  issue.  His  most  recent  novel,  Remembrance  Day, 
T,  was  published  by  St.  Martin's  Press  last  July.  His  next  bcwk,  Somewhere  East 
;f  of  Life,  will  be  out  from  Carroll  & Graf  later  this  year. 

5 art:  Laurie  Harden 


Elizabeth  said:  “I  know  I’m  only  an  ignorant  peasant  woman.  How- 
ever rich  we  become,  a peasant  woman  I’ll  remain.  But  I’ve  heeded 
the  tales  old  women  still  tell  in  the  village,  when  they  sit  out  on  their 
steps  in  the  evening  light.  The  first  gods  were  female.  That’s  true, 
girls.  The  first  gods  were  female.  I’m  talking  about  long  ago,  you 
understand.  Women  had  all  the  power  then.  Childbirth  was  a mys- 
tery. What  the  learned  call  copulation  and  I call  fucking  was  not 
connected  in  people’s  minds  with  childbearing. 

“This  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  world.  People  were  simple  in 
those  days,  my  dear  daughters.  Men  had  no  importance  because  the 
link  between  what  they’ve  got  between  their  legs  and  begetting  chil- 
dren was  not  understood.  So  the  myths  began,  those  stories  that  ex- 
plain the  world.  Do  you  know,  women  were  supernatural  beings'?  It 
was  believed  that  rivers  and  winds  impregnated  the  wombs  of  women. 
People  lived  happily  enough  under  that  illusion,  I suppose.  They  must 
have  made  love  just  as  folk  do  now.  We  all  live  under  illusions  still, 
that  we  know.  Whatever  Father  Nikolaos  says  in  church,  we  still  don’t 
know  what  makes  the  world  tick. 

“Once  everyone  found  out  what  really  happened  with  fucking  and 
all  that,  and  how  men  had  a use  after  all,  their  standing  improved. 
Men  became  mad  with  their  new  power.  That  must  be  when  male  gods 
first  arrived.  One  god  was  supposed  to  have  created  everything — the 
universe  and  all  the  beings  in  it.  Just  to  take  away  women’s  power 
from  them. 

“Gods  are  tricky  things,  and  so  are  men.  They  always  think  they 
know  better.  So  just  beware,  now  you’re  growing  up,  my  dear 
daughters.” 

The  four  girls  smiled  like  cats  with  saucers  of  cream,  and  said 
nothing.  They  loved  their  mother,  but  of  course  they  knew  better  than 
she  did. 

“I  had  a golden  dream  last  night,”  said  Elena,  resting  her  elbow  on 
the  breakfast  table  and  her  chin  in  her  hand.  “It  was  wonderful  and  it 
lasted  all  night  through.  You  see.  . . .” 

But  there  she  paused,  to  look  into  the  faces  of  her  sisters.  The  girls 
were  sitting  barefoot  on  their  verandah  in  the  early  morning  sun.  For 
breakfast  they  ate  bread  with  honey  and  yoghurt.  Today  there  was  no 
school.  They  lingered  over  coffee  while  their  mother  scurried  about  in 
the  house,  preparing  to  leave  for  work  in  the  fields. 

The  eyes  of  the  sisters  were  grey  or  deep  blue,  like  the  Aegean  which 
could  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  small  house.  The  house  had  been 
built  by  Elena’s  grandfather;  small  and  whitewashed,  it  had  stood  amid 
its  little  garden  for  almost  fifty  years.  And  last  night  something  like  a 
great  wind,  and  yet  something  more  than  a great  wind,  had  visited  it. 

“Well  now,  what  was  this  ‘golden  dream’?”  asked  Persephone,  the  bold 
sister  (who  would  later  dream  she  went  to  Australia). 


138 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


Still  Elena  hesitated.  She  had  realized  that  her  dream,  so  beautiful  in 
its  unfolding,  might  seem  indelicate  in  its  telling. 

“I  bet  it  was  all  about  a man,  eh?”  said  Artemis,  the  naughty  sister 
(who  would  later  dream  she  ran  a husband  and  a hat  shop  in  Athens). 

Elena  sucked  her  spoon  and  looked  from  one  sister  to  another.  She  felt 
a blush  starting  in  the  roots  of  her  black  hair  and  spreading  to  her 
cheeks.  Now  that  she  had  embarked  on  the  subject,  she  hardly  knew  how 
to  continue. 

“You  don’t  have  to  tell  us,  Elena,  darling,  if  it’s  private,”  said  Rea,  the 
shy  sister  (who  would  later  dream  she  made  an  unfortunate  marriage). 

“Oh,  yes,  she  does,”  said  Persephone. 

“What  happened  was,”  said  Elena,  and  then  paused  before  going  on  in 
a rush,  “a  god  came  to  my  bed  in  the  shape  of  a golden  whirlwind.” 

Before  she  could  say  more,  her  sisters  broke  into  peals  of  laughter, 
covering  their  open  mouths  politely  with  their  hands  as  they  did  so. 
“(]k)lden  whirlwind!”  they  repeated,  and  hooted  with  laughter.  “Golden 
whirlwind!”  and  rocked  with  laughter. 

They  joked  all  through  the  morning.  They  were  still  teasing  Elena  in 
the  evening,  when  their  mother  returned  from  work.  Elizabeth  put  an 
arm  about  Elena,  smiled  good-naturedly,  and  quietened  her  daughters 
down.  Elizabeth  Papoulias  never  joked.  The  girls  sometimes  teased  her 
in  a high-spirited  way.  Elizabeth  would  merely  laugh  by  way  of  response. 

Elizabeth’s  laughter  always  touched  Elena;  she  felt  that  she  alone 
among  the  sisters  understood  her  mother’s  sorrow.  Now  she  was  sad 
herself,  to  have  her  beautiful  and  inexplicable  dream  mocked. 

Hard  outside  work  had  made  Elizabeth’s  hands  hard,  but  her  manner 
to  her  daughters  was  invariably  gentle.  Some  grey  hairs  already 
streaked  her  dark  hair.  She  had  ceased  to  look  in  her  mirror.  Now  Eliza- 
beth took  her  youngest  daughter  aside  and  advised  her  in  her  low,  serious 
voice.  “Elena,  your  sisters  do  not  understand.  You  must  not  be  upset  by 
them.  You  believe  your  dream  happened,  so  it  happened.  The  world’s 
stranger  than  people  think.” 

“It  was  not  really  a dream,  mother.” 

“That  I understand.  I was  awake  in  the  night,  as  I always  am.” 

Elena  looked  inquiringly  at  her  mother,  waiting  for  her  to  continue. 

“I  heard  you  cry  out  for  pleasure,  Elena.” 

Elena  looked  down  at  the  floor  in  embarassment,  not  saying  a word. 
In  her  delight,  had  she  not  cried  out  more  than  once? 

“Our  entire  house  was  bathed  in  gold,  Elena,  for  a whole  hour.  Such 
light  as  never  was  before.  It’s  a great  wonder,  my  dearest.” 

Elizabeth  stood  in  the  small  room  that  served  as  kitchen  and  living 
room.  In  one  corner  was  the  television  set,  in  another,  Yannis,  their 
caged  linnet.  She  went  over  to  speak  to  the  bird  when  her  daughter  left 
the  room. 

Yannis  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  as  if  understanding  what  Elizabeth 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


139 


had  to  say.  What  Elizabeth  had  to  say  was  not  very  articulate.  The  linnet 
answered  with  a clear  fluting  burst  of  song. 

“Oh,  Yannis,  we  keep  you  imprisoned,”  said  Elizabeth.  “I  love  you 
dearly,  yet  I keep  you  in  this  little  cage.  . . . Forgive  me.  Life  is  a prison 
for  humans  too.  I fear  for  Elena’s  future. . . .” 

She  was  in  one  of  her  bad  moods,  when  everything  looked  black.  So 
often  she  longed  to  have  a man  to  turn  to  for  advice. 

She  carried  the  cage  out  into  the  fresh  spring  air,  to  hang  it  from  a 
hook  on  the  verandah,  in  the  shade,  where  Yannis  might  watch  birds 
that  were  free. 

Elena,  meanwhile,  had  slipped  out  of  the  house  without  her  sisters 
knowing.  They  were  prattling  on  the  back  porch,  among  the  oleanders 
and  the  chickens.  She  walked  down  through  the  olive  trees  to  the  meu:- 
gins  of  the  sea,  feeling  herself  invaded  by  a new  sense  of  loneliness. 

The  waters  of  the  Saronic  Gulf  stretched  before  her,  in  color  between 
deep  blue  and  purple.  W’aves  turned  leizily  over  on  the  shingle  at  the 
girl’s  feet.  Distant  islands  showed  grey,  crowned  by  white  cloud.  As 
always  when  she  stood  here,  gazing  into  distance,  Elena  wondered  if  her 
father  would  ever  return.  She  had  to  pretend  to  herself  she  remembered 
his  face,  smiling  down  at  her. 

Looking  back,  she  could  make  out  the  red-tiled  roof  of  her  home  among 
the  olive  branches.  She  loved  the  house  in  which  she  had  been  bom,  and 
the  way  in  which  it  was  now  occupied  solely  by  women.  But  when  she 
had  expressed  that  love  to  her  mother,  and  remarked  on  how  kind  grand- 
father had  been  to  leave  it  to  Elizabeth,  her  mother  had  not  replied; 
instead,  her  face  became  set.  And  Elena  remembered  hearing  from  an 
old  woman  in  the  village  that  her  grandfather  had  been  a cmel  and 
drunken  man.  Angry  at  siring  no  sons,  he  had  beaten  and  abused  his 
poor  daughter. 

She  slipped  off  her  shoes  and  walked  among  the  little  wet  stones, 
letting  an  occasional  wave  break  over  her  feet.  Her  gaze  was  lowered  in 
thought.  A gull  cried  out  as  it  passed  overhead,  wings  outspread. 

Elena  remembered  how  often  her  mother  said,  looking  up  at  a passing 
gull,  “Oh,  that  I were  as  free  as  that  bird!”  The  remark  brought  sorrow 
to  Elena’s  heart:  not  only  because  the  sentiment  revealed  her  mother’s 
discontent,  but  because  she  knew,  as  Elizabeth  did  not,  that  even  the 
birds  were  governed  by  stern  laws  of  hunger  and  territoriality.  A convic- 
tion overcame  her — by  no  means  for  the  first  time — that  human  life,  and 
the  great  life  of  the  universe,  was  other  than  adults  preferred  to  believe 
it  was. 

The  sheer  mystery  of  the  world  gave  her  somber  pleasure.  It  was  the 
pleasure  which  cut  her  off  from  her  three  sisters. 

A clump  of  yellow  sea  poppy  grew  amid  the  old  square  stones.  The 
stones  had  the  texture  of  biscuit.  They  marked  a spot  where  once  had 
stood  a temple,  ancient  before  Christ  was  born.  Something  glinted  in  the 
grey  sand  piled  up  around  the  stones.  Elena  stoojjed,  dug  in  the  sand, 
and  pulled  up  a glittering  thing  from  its  place  of  semi-concealment. 


140 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


The  high  wind  in  the  night  had  caused  waves  to  lash  against  the 
remains  of  the  venerable  building.  What  the  storm  had  partially  vuicov- 
ered  was  a collar  or  parure  made  of  gold.  Elena  held  up  the  collar  in 
astonishment,  allowing  it  to  gleam  in  the  sunlight.  When  she  had  rinsed 
the  sand  from  it,  she  saw  it  was  both  beautiful  and  ancient,  whole  and 
complete. 

Elizabeth  was  more  excited  than  her  daughters.  She  and  Elena  caught 
a ferry  and  ventured  to  Athens.  They  took  the  precious  find  to  an  expert 
at  the  Athens  Archaeological  Museum.  The  expert,  after  consultation, 
pronounced  the  parure  to  be  of  Byzantine  workmanship,  gold,  and  of  rare 
design,  probably  dating  from  the  tenth  century.  A museum  in  Berlin  was 
anxious  to  acquire  it.  Before  too  many  weeks  had  passed,  a sum  of  money 
which  Elizabeth — not  to  mention  her  four  astonished  daughters — ^reg- 
arded as  immense  was  paid  over  to  her.  From  then  onward,  Elizabeth  no 
longer  had  to  toil  in  the  fields,  and  could  pay  to  have  her  children  edu- 
cate in  foreign  languages. 

“Elena  was  always  lucky,”  said  her  sisters,  not  knowing  then  just  how 
lucky. 

Elizabeth  Papoulias  knew  that  what  had  happened  to  her  youngest 
daughter  was  no  dreeun,  no  idle  thing.  Her  lovely  Elena,  bom  only  a 
month  after  her  ne’er-do-well  husband  had  left  her,  was  deeply  precious 
to  her:  her  empathy  for  the  child  caused  her  to  believe  shd.knew  Elena’s 
feelings  better  than  did  the  girl  herself.  Deeply  superstitious,  brought 
up  with  the  stories  of  the  old  gods  and  goddesses  with  their  impetuous 
ways,  she  believed  that  Elena  was  favored  by  the  arbitrary  rulers  of  the 
universe. 

This  understanding  she  had  always  hugged  to  herself,  saying  ho  word 
of  it  to  her  children,  even  to  Elena,  in  case  someone  becaihe  jealous.  But 
families  understand  what  is  imspoken  better  than  words  from  the  mouth. 

When  the  immense  sum  of  money  arrived  from  Berlin,  Elizabeth  found 
herself  more  in  control  of  her  life,  and  the  lives  of  those  Who  were  her 
responsibility.  She  hoped  above  all  to  spare  them  from  thd  kind  of  prison 
of  circumstance  in  which  she  felt  she  existed.  So  she  t(Mk  a walk  down 
to  the  kiosk  in  the  village  and  phoned  her  sister  Sophia,  who  lived  in 
Piraeus. 

Sophia  had  married  a doctor,  and  was  now  Mrs.  Sophia  Houdris,  wife  of 
Dr.  Constandine  Houdris.  Consequently,  she  over-dressed,  visited  hair- 
dressing saloons  frequently,  and  patronized  her  less  fortunate  sister. 
On  the  phone,  however,  Sophia  was  geniality  itself,  Elena’s  fabulous 
discovery  having  evidently  had  a beneficial  effect  on  her  temperament. 
It  was  agreed  that  the  doctor  would  examine  Elena  privately. 

One  morning  in  late  spring,  Elizabeth  kept  Elena  away  from  school 
and  caught  the  ferry  to  Piraeus  with  her.  Rea,  Artemis,  and  Persephone 
were  not  as  envious  as  might  be  imagined,  since  they  were  rather  afraid 
of  their  overbearing  Aunt  Sophia,  with  her  fine  city  manners. 

Mother  and  daughter  arrived  at  the  tall  narrow  house  in  Anakous 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


141 


Street,  to  be  greeted  affectionately  by  Sophia  and  given  a good  late  lunch, 
with  plates  of  the  sweet  cakes  to  which  Sophia  was  addicted.  Elena  was 
subdued;  she  was  frightened  by  the  noise  and  business  of  the  streets  of 
Piraeus,  and  oppress^  by  what  she  regarded  as  the  over-fumished  rooms 
where  her  aunt  and  uncle  lived.  So  she  said  hardly  a word  while  the  two 
sisters  talked  away,  Sophia  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette  meanwhile. 
They  walked  softly;  the  doctor  was  seeing  patients  in  his  surgery  immedi- 
ately below. 

A linnet  hopped  about  in  a cage  on  Sophia’s  first  floor  balcony.  It 
resembled  Yannis,  but  would  not  sing  for  Elena. 

“So  how  do  you  feel?  You  don’t  look  ill,  girl.  Well,  let’s  get  it  over  with. 
Take  your  clothes  off.  Yes,  yes,  all  of  them.  Don’t  be  shy.  Don’t  delay, 
there’s  a good  girl.  I have  an  important  patient  coming  to  see  me  at  4:30. 
Tell  me  about  your  periods.” 

Uncle  Constandine  Houdris  was  in  some  respects  a fine-looking  man. 
He  had  superficially  a resemblance  to  a good  old  Greek  sailor,  with  a 
complicated  wrinkl^  visage,  a noble  brow,  and  a huge  white  moustache. 
He  was,  however,  very  pale,  rather  stooped,  and  nervous  in  his  manner. 
He  rarely  left  the  apartment  on  Anakous  Street,  wore  eyeglasses  of  a 
pink  tint,  and  smok^  heavily,  even  when  examining  his  patients. 

Elena  was  embarrassed  to  stand  naked  before  him.  Dr.  Houdris 
stubbed  out  his  cigarette  and  regarded  her  young  body  appreciatively. 

“I’m  supposed  to  have  a nurse  here  for  these  examinations,  but  since 
you’re  family  we’ll  save  a drachma  or  two,”  he  said,  coming  closer  and 
beginning  to  feel  his  niece  lingeringly.  “Mm,  mm. . . . What  sign  were 
you  bom  under?  Mm,  mm. . . . 

“Very  nice,  my  dear.  You’re  well-developed  for  thirteen.  Still  a virgin, 
eh?  No  village  boys  got  at  you  yet?” 

She  said  in  a whisper,  “Uncle,  something  came  to  me  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  Two  months  ago.  Not  of  my  asking.” 

He  nodded.  “Not  a village  boy?  It  entered  you,  though?  Your  hymen’s 
intact.  Still. . . . There  seems  to  be  something  inside  that  neat  little  belly 
of  yours.  We’ll  take  an  X-ray.  So  what  was  this  ‘something’  that  came  to 
you  in  the  middle  of  the  night?  Your  mother  seems  excited  about  it  all.” 

“Mother  thinks  it  was  a god.”  She  brought  out  the  last  word  with  an 
effort. 

He  peered  nearsightedly  at  Elena,  and  for  the  first  time  allowed  some 
sympathy  to  pervade  his  tone. 

“And  what  do  you  think,  Elena?” 

“I  think  it  was  a god.” 

As  he  positioned  her  on  the  X-ray  machine,  he  said,  “You  realize  this 
is  probably  a delusion?  Young  girls  often  suffer  from  delusions.  Well,  so 
do  old  men,  come  to  that. . . . Hold  still  now. ...  At  times  you’d  think 
that  everything  was  a delusion.” 

'The  X-rays  showed  that  it  was  no  delusion.  Elena  had  within  her 
body — well,  baffling  though  it  was,  the  plate  showed  clearly  that  a small 


142 


BtllAN  W.  ALDISS 


god  nestled  snugly  there.  It  was  no  fetus.  Rather,  as  far  as  could  be  seen, 
it  was  bearded  and,  moreover,  wore  a Grecian-type  helmet  of  the  sort 
reproduced  so  often  for  foreign  tourists  to  buy  in  the  souvenir  shops  of 
Plaka. 

Sophia  and  Elizabeth  were  called  down  to  the  surgery  to  see  the  X- 
rays.  They  were  dumbfounded  and  clucked  like  old  hens,  saying  repeat- 
edly that  they  couldn’t  believe  it. 

“But  when  will  it  be  bom,  uncle?”  Elena  asked,  almost  in  tears. 

Her  uncle  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders.  “How  did  the  geni  get  in 
the  bottle?  That’s  the  medical  question. . . 

“Oh,  drat  the  medical  question,  uncle!  What  am  I to  do?” 

Dr.  Houdris  removed  his  pink  spectacles  fmm  his  face  and  stared  up 
at  the  ceiling. 

“There  must  be  some  way  we  can  make  money  out  of  this,  my  girl.  As 
long  as  that  little  man  sleeps  on  in  there — ” 

“Little  man!  Why,  it’s  a god,  Constandine!”  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  dar- 
ing to  contradict  her  brother-in-law.  “And  I’m  certainly  not  putting 
Elena  on  display,  if  you  have  any  such  idea  in  your  head.  She’s  very 
special,  is  my  Elena.  I’ve  always  known  it,  and  this  proves  it.” 

How  special  Elena  was,  they  had  yet  to  find  out.  Elena  and  her  mother 
took  the  ferry  back  across  the  Saronic  Gulf,  and  tried  to  live  as  before. 
Houdris  and  his  wife,  however,  were  more  ambitious. 

It  happened  that  one  of  Houdris’s  patients  was  an  upward  mobile  man 
in  the  lower  circles  of  the  ruling  political  party,  a party  which  both  the 
doctor  and  his  wife  supported,  llie  doctor  confided  to  this  young  man 
that  he  had  an  extraordinary  niece  who  was  apparently  about  to  become 
a unique  example  of  virgin  birth.  By  his  calculations,  the  child,  her 
extraordineuy  child,  would  be  bora  some  time  late  in  December. 

Although  the  young  man  had  not  risen  sufficiently  in  his  profession  to 
have  the  ear  of  the  Prime  Minister,  he  certainly  had  the  ear  of  the 
Minister  for  the  Environment.  The  Minister  for  the  Environment  was  a 
distant  relation  of  his,  a cousin-twice-removed.  As  soon  as  he  got  the 
chance,  he  told  the  story  of  Elena,  with  suitable  embellishments,  to  this 
Minister.  The  Minister  laughed  and  said  merely  that  he  did  not  think  a 
second  Virgin  Mary  was  in  the  cards.  However,  after  he  had  paid  the  bill 
for  his  young  relation’s  drinks,  he  thought  about  the  matter. 

Ever  since  her  husband  had  left  her,  Elizabeth  had  suffered  from  in- 
somnia. The  excitement  brought  on  by  the  news  of  Elena’s  god  made 
sleep  even  harder  to  come  by.  She  rose  one  morning  before  dawn,  left  a 
note  for  her  sleeping  daughters  telling  them  to  get  their  own  breakfasts 
and  be  sure  to  wash  properly,  and  set  off  to  catch  a boat. 

The  spirit,  she  told  herselfi  moved  her. 

It  was  a Friday.  And  on  Fridays  during  the  summer  a ferry  sailing 
among  the  islands  called  in  at  the  nearest  port,  only  four  kilometers 
beyond  the  village.  Elizabeth  caught  the  ferry  with  five  minutes  to  spare. 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


143 


She  sat  on  deck,  watching  the  ever-changing  pattern  of  islands  and  sea, 
bathed  in  the  pure  light  of  another  day.  She  rejoiced.  She  felt  elevated. 
What  had  happened  was — she  hardly  dared  use  the  word,  even  to  her- 
self—a miracle.  She  lived  in  a miraculous  world. 

The  understanding  gave  her  a new  power;  she  felt  it  within  her,  as  if 
she  herself  was  carrying  a god  in  her  womb.  Looking  back  at  the  wake 
of  the  vessel,  she  saw  it  as  a path  she  herself  was  making  across  the 
world.  She  sang  imder  her  breath,  matching  the  song  to  the  steady 
rhythm  of  the  ship’s  engines. 

When  the  ferry  pulled  into  the  harbor  of  the  island  of  Aegina,  Elizabeth 
disembarked  amid  a small  knot  of  village  people,  local  holiday-makers, 
and  foreign  tourists.  Aegina  was  all  a-bustle,  even  at  this  pristine  hour. 
She  ignored  the  attractions  of  its  shops  and  hired  a taxi  to  take  her 
inland,  up  to  the  ruined  temple  of  Aphaia. 

The  great  temple,  built  in  the  heyday  of  Aegean  culture  some  centuries 
before  Christ,  stood  proudly  on  a hill.  Worshippers  here  could  gaze  at  an 
unrivaled  panorama — Elizabeth  had  been  taught  Sappho’s  words — 
Over  the  salt  sea 

and  over  the  richly  flowered  fields 

At  this  hour,  the  temple  stood  solitary  on  its  eminence,  except  for  a 
melancholy  Oriental  tourist  with  a pack  on  his  back.  He  sat  clutching 
his  camera,  gazing  out  to  where  light  and  distance  concealed  Kithnos 
and  the  isles  of  the  Cyclades.  He  had  no  glance  to  spare  for  Elizabeth  or 
she  for  him. 

Her  mother  had  brought  little  Elizabeth  here  once,  on  her  name  day, 
when  she  was  six  years  old.  She  had  never  forgotten  her  shock  at  the 
sight  of  her  mother  abandoning  the  habits  of  church  and  throwing  herself 
down  on  the  worn  stones  to  pray  to  the  elusive  goddess,  Aphaia,  whoever 
she  might  be. 

Perhaps  humans  should  not  know  the  gods  by  name. 

Elizabeth’s  mother  had  prayed  for  the  happiness  of  her  child.  Now 
Elizabeth  prostrated  herself  much  as  her  mother  had  done,  over  thirty 
years  earlier.  The  stones  beneath  her  knees,  her  arms,  were  still  chilly 
from  the  night.  Like  her  mother,  she  prayed  for  the  happiness  of  her 
daughters,  and  for  Elena  especially.  And  for  whatever  was  about  to 
happen  to  them. . . . 

The  prayer  faded  into  a meditation  as  she  abased  herself  under  the 
Doric  columns.  Women  must  have  come  to  pray  at  this  sacred  spot  over 
many  generations.  Yet  she  knew  nothing  of  them.  She  knew  only  of  her 
own  mother,  her  own  daughters.  So  ignorant  was  she,  that  all  the  rest 
might  be  pure  invention,  something  cooked  up  by  priests  or  the  educated. 

Was  this  visitation  of  the  god  to  Elena  perhaps  also  a message  to  her? 
Suppose  the  whole  universe  was  about  to  be  reinvented. . . . Her  youngest 
daughter  was  not  too  young  to  bear  a child,  just  as  she,  Lizzie  Papoulias, 
was  not  too  old  to  bear  another  one,  if  required.  Of  this  she  felt  certain; 
that  some  wonderful  process  had  started,  which  would  overturn  every- 
thing that  now  was.  Teeirs  of  joy  squeezed  their  way  from  her  closed  eyes. 


144 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


She  must  help  the  wonderful  thing  to  happen.  She  alone,  possibly  with 
the  interference  of  her  sister  and  brother-in-law.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this 
the  gods  had  arranged  that  her  husband  should  desert  her. 

Speculation  faded  into  prayer  again  as  she  stirred  on  the  hard  blocks 
of  chiseled  stone.  She  prayed  that  she  would  be  unafraid  in  the  face  of 
powers  she  could  never  comprehend. 

When  she  stood  up,  tourists  were  arriving  at  the  temple,  cheerful  in 
their  colorful  clothing.  Elizabeth  avoided  them  and  went  down  to  the 
souvenir  shop  for  an  orange  juice. 

The  Minister  of  the  Environment  was  an  easygoing  man.  He  was  not 
deeply  moved  by  the  plight  of  the  environment,  being  fond  of  telling  his 
friends  that  it  was,  after  all,  the  deforestation  of  Attica  which  had  built 
Athenian  triremes  which  had  brought  democracy  to  Europe  and  the 
West.  So,  he  ended  with  a laugh,  deforestation  must  be  good  for  us  all. 

What  the  Minister  needed  just  at  present  was  money.  He  had  taken 
on  an  expensive  mistress  who  liked  to  shop  in  Paris  and  New  York.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  the  story  of  little  Elena  Papoulias,  as  told  to  him 
by  his  cousin-twice-removed,  might  be  helpful  to  his  overdraft.  Surely 
the  Prime  Minister  would  like  the  sound  of  having  a second  Virgin  Mary 
bom  on  his  home  ground.  . . . The  Pope  would  be  furious,  all  eyes  would 
be  turned  on  Greece. 

He  knew  how  superstitious  the  Prime  Minster  was;  and  of  course  the 
government  was  at  that  time  undergoing  a financial  crisis  and  losing 
general  support.  It  would  by  no  means  harm  his  career  if  he  offered  the 
P.M.  a distraction  to  bolster  his  popularity. 

The  next  formal  committee  meeting  was  a stormy  one.  The  P.M., 
against  the  advice  of  most  of  the  cabinet,  had  decided  to  launch  another 
national  lottery,  to  be  called  the  Youth  Lottery.  The  prizes  for  the  Youth 
Lottery  would  be  suitably  grand,  while  the  proceeds  would  go  toward 
improved  school  accommodation.  The  new  buildings  would  eventually 
replace  the  present  rather  haphazard  methods  of  education,  particularly 
in  rural  areas  and  on  the  islands. 

During  the  meeting,  the  Minister  for  the  Environment  slipped  away 
and  phoned  his  young  relation.  The  young  relation  phoned  Dr.  Con- 
standine  Houdris.  Dr.  Houdris  gave  some  details  of  Elena’s  schooling 
and  how,  during  term  time,  she  and  her  sisters  had  to  walk  a kilometer 
to  catch  a bus  which  took  them  to  a village  where  they  got  a ferry  to  a 
large  town  in  which  their  school  was  situated.  This  journey  had  to  be 
made  in  reverse  order  after  class.  In  winter,  when  storms  swept  the 
Saronic  Gulf,  the  ferries  often  could  not  run.  This  information  was  re- 
layed back  to  the  Minister  for  the  Environment. 

The  Minister  had  previously  been  lukewarm  about  the  Youth  Lottery. 
Now  he  became  more  enthusiastic,  tackling  the  P.M.  after  the  meeting 
and  drinking  some  champagne  with  him. 

“I  can  think  of  an  ideal  young  person  who  might  stand  for  all  the  young 
people  who  will  benefit  from  your  splendid  lottery.  Prime  Minister,”  he 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


145 


said.  “An  imaginative  symbol.  An  outstanding  and  I believe  very  attrac- 
tive representative  of  Greek  girlhood.”  And  he  proceeded  to  explain  about 
Elena  Papoulias. 

“What?”  said  the  P.M.  “She’s  pregnant?  Thirteen  and  pregnant  and 
you  wish  me  to  use  her  as  a symbol  of  Greek  girlhood?  You’re  mad, 
Stavros!  Go  away.  Leave  me  in  peace.  Do  something  about  the  traffic  in 
Athens.” 

'The  bill  for  the  Youth  Lottery  was  passed  through  parliament  before 
the  summer  recess.  'The  first  monthly  draw  was  to  be  held  in  November. 
Everywhere  went  the  publicity  for  the  lottery,  and  the  P.M.’s  popularity 
rose  accordingly. 

The  month  of  November  was  wet.  The  four  Papoulias  sisters  attended 
school  as  usual.  Elizabeth  went  to  church  on  Sunday  as  was  her  custom. 
She  was  a little  afraid  of  the  young  priest,  with  his  glossy  black  beard 
and  proud  bearing;  the  old  priest.  Father  Nikolaos,  rather  dotty  now, 
had  been  more  to  her  taste.  The  young  priest  had  made  a disparaging 
remark  about  Elena’s  pregnancy,  to  Elizabeth’s  annoyance. 

That  pregnancy — though  Elizabeth  never  used  the  word — had  ad- 
vanced no  further.  Elena  gave  no  sign  of  oncoming  parturition  and  indeed 
had  grown  accustomed  to  the  god  sleeping  inside  her. 

As  Elizabeth  left  the  little  white-washed  church  that  November  morn- 
ing, she  was  surprised  to  see  the  old  priest.  Father  Nikolaos,  standing 
under  a pine  tree  nearby.  He  beckoned  Elizabeth  over. 

“Father,  how  are  you?  How’s  the  arthritis?  I’ve  really  been  meaning 
to  visit  you.” 

“Of  course,  of  course.  It  is  a bit  of  a problem.  And  your  sons  are  well?” 

“Daughters,  father.” 

'The  old  man  nodded  his  head  vigorously.  “Daughters  I meant  to  say. 
I hear  tell  the  youngest  has  a little  god  inside  her,  is  that  right?” 

Elizabeth  ventured  to  put  a hand  on  the  old  man’s  arm.  “Father,  you 
will  think  it  blasphemy  that  we  call  it  a god.  But  there’s  something  in 
there  that  doesn’t  want  to  come  out,  and  the  X-rays  show  it  to  be  of 
human  shape.  And  it  wears  a little  helmet.” 

“A  helmet,  you  say?  A helmet?  Then  it  must  be  a god.  Many  wonderful 
things  happen,  my  child,  and  who  am  I to  deny  it?”  He  paused.  The  rain 
was  coming  on  again.  “All  will  go  well  with  you  and  yours  as  long  as 
that  little  god  keeps  on  sleeping  inside  your  son.  He’ll  protect  you  from 
harm  and  bring  good  fortune — to  you  as  well  as  your  sons.” 

“Daughters,  Father.  You  shouldn’t  stay  out  in  this  rain.” 

“Daughters  I meant  to  say.  Excuse  me.  There’s  something  I had  to  tell 
you. . . . Now  what  was  it?” 

“About  Elena?” 

“Oh  yes.  No.  No,  I don’t  think  so.” 

She  was  getting  wet  and  feeling  she  needed  to  go  home  and  sit  down 
and  sip  some  camomile  tea.  “It’s  not  about  Costas,  is  it?”  Costas  was  her 
missing  husband. 


146 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


“Ah,  yes.  Costas.  . . . Poor  fellow!  Unable  to  tell  right  from  wrong.” 

“Don’t  pity  him,  Father.  Pity  me  who  ever  crossed  paths  with  the  man. 
What’s  your  news?” 

Father  Nikolaos  had  a brother  in  Australia.  Over  the  years,  and  inter- 
mittently, the  brother  had  sent  home  news  of  emigrant  Greeks  to  his 
priest  brother.  Some  years  previously,  maybe  two,  maybe  three,  he  had 
enclosed  a clipping  from  a newspaper  in  his  letter.  The  clipping  was  a 
brief  news  item  reporting  that  Costas  Papoulias,  thirty-six,  had  been  up 
for  trial  for  rape  and  manslaughter  before  a court  in  Sydney.  The  court 
had  sentenced  him  to  a long  prison  term.  Privately,  Elizateth  was  re- 
lieved to  know  that  this  violent  man — every  bit  as  bad  as  her  own  fa- 
ther— had  been  shut  away  in  a distant  land.  Not  wishing  her  daughters 
to  feel  ashamed,  she  had  never  told  them  that  their  father  was  a convict 
in  an  Australian  jail. 

“What’s  the  news.  Father?”  she  asked  again,  as  the  old  priest  looked 
up  at  her,  narrowing  his  eyes  as  if  trying  to  sum  her  up. 

“He’s  hopped  it,  my  dear.  Escaped  from  prison.” 

The  old  man  knew  nothing  more  than  that.  The  Australian  newspaper 
had  simply  reported  the  bare  fact.  Elizabeth  walked  home  through  the 
drizzle  in  a thoughtful  mood.  She  made  herself  a cup  of  camomile  tea 
and  settled  down  on  her  sofa  under  a rug,  relieved  that  her  daughters 
were  off  with  friends,  amusing  themselves.  Yannis  sang  to  her,  but  she 
did  not  hear;  she  could  only  think  that  Costas  might  come  back  to  Greece 
and  seek  her  out.  He  would  come  straight  to  the  house.  The  nightmare 
life  would  resume. . . . 

But  if  the  gods  had  ordained  it.  . . . 

Next  day,  when  the  girls  were  at  school,  an  official-looking  letter  ar- 
rived, addressed  to  Elena.  Elizabeth  immediately  connected  it  with  her 
husband.  Wrongly,  as  it  turned  out.  When  Elena  returned  and  opened 
the  letter,  she  discovered  that  she  had  won  the  very  first  draw  of  the 
Youth  Lottery.  Millions  of  drachmae  were  hers. 

Elizabeth  had  bought  five  tickets,  one  for  each  of  her  daughters  and 
one  for  herself.  And  Elena  was  the  lucky  one.  A second  fortune  had  come 
her  way. 

She  thought  of  Father  Nikolaos’s  words:  The  god  will  bring  you  good 
luck  as  long  as  he  goes  on  sleeping  inside  Elena.  But  if  he  woke  up?  She 
trembled  from  the  force  of  her  fear. 

Innocent  and  pliant,  Elena  declared  herself  delighted  by  her  amazing 
luck.  Privately,  she  wished  only  that  life  would  continue  as  it  was,  if 
possible  for  ever.  It  was  her  sisters  who  seemed  to  yearn  for  change. 

“Lend  me  some  money,  and  when  I leave  school  I’ll  fly  to  America  emd 
be  a movie  star,”  said  Persephone  (who  would  later  dream  she  went  to 
Australia). 

“Buy  me  a red  motorcycle  like  my  friend  Tomis,”  begged  Artemis  (who 
would  later  dream  she  ran  a husband  and  hat  shop  in  Athens.) 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


147 


“Do  you  think  we  could  afford  a video  now?”  asked  Rea  (who  would 
later  dream  she  made  an  unfortunate  marriage). 

Elena  said  she  would  see  about  it.  First  of  all,  she  had  to  go  to  Athens. 
There,  she  would  receive  her  lottery  prize  and  shake  hands  with  the 
Prime  Minister  before  the  television  cameras.  Then,  she  said  to  herself, 
she  would  return  home,  bringing  each  of  her  sisters  a present,  with  a 
special  present  for  her  mother,  and  probably  something  for  her  history 
teacher,  a young  man  for  whom  she  had  tender  feelings.  She  felt  that 
the  little  god  in  her  stomach  approved  of  her  intentions;  perhaps  he  even 
masterminded  them. 

In  the  silence  of  the  crowded  bedroom,  when  her  sisters  were  asleep, 
she  whispered  a prayer  to  the  god:  “Dear  God,  please  don’t  let  my  world 
disappear.  Let  everything  continue  as  it  is,  for  ever  and  ever.  Amen.” 

And  she  stroked  her  stomach. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  she  was  to  go  to  Athens,  Elena  walked 
among  their  olive  trees.  Where  the  trees  ended,  marking  off  a stretch  of 
land  sloping  down  to  the  sea,  stood  an  old  stone  wall.  The  wall  was 
covered — almost  held  together — ^by  ivy.  At  its  foot,  ants  were  toiling. 
They  had  worn  a path  through  the  grass  and  wild  thyme.  The  path 
negotiated  steep  bends  through  the  bands  of  stonework  before  disap- 
pearing. It  emerged  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  made  its  meander- 
ing way  inland.  Here  was  a world  which  continued  as  it  was,  she  thought, 
for  ever  and  ever,  amen. 

Elena  had  always  taken  an  interest  in  the  ants.  Sometimes  she  dropped 
crumbs  of  bread  in  their  path,  in  order  to  watch  them  carry  the  morsels 
down  into  the  dark  of  their  nest. 

The  ants  had  been  there  since  before  Thucydides  was  bom,  long  before 
Christ.  So  she  imagined.  She  was  studying  Thucydides  with  the  young 
history  master.  Thucydides  said  that  events  in  the  past  would  be  repeated 
in  the  future.  She  had  felt  uneasy  about  this  idea,  for  which  the  young 
history  master  had  no  explanation.  Now  she  asked  the  god  inside  her  if 
the  universe  might  be  recreated  as  before.  Or  had  it  been  recreated  and 
destroyed  many  times?  The  sleeping  god,  as  usual,  gave  no  reply. 

She  heard  her  mother  calling  from  the  house.  Elizabeth  was  standing 
there  in  her  best  clothes,  looking  anxious.  And  beside  her  was  a smart 
grey  lean  impatient  man  from  the  TV  studios. 

If  Elena  wished  only  to  continue  her  dreamy  private  schoolgirl  life, 
there  were  those  in  Athens,  by  contrast,  whose  profession  it  was  to  in- 
trude on  other  people’s  lives.  This  was  true  from  the  Prime  Minister 
downward,  to  the  lowest  journalist.  Many  men  and  women  in  this  cate- 
gory immediately  interested  themselves  in  Elena  Papoulias  and  her  re- 
markable good  fortune. 

The  young  girl’s  pregnancy,  real  or  supposed,  coupled  with  her  remark- 
able strokes  of  fortune  in  winning  treasure  both  ancient  and  modem, 
made  a wondrous  combination.  Elena’s  adolescent  beauty  supplemented 
the  attractions  of  the  story. 


148 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


“How  photogenic  you  are,  dear,”  exclaimed  one  photojoumalist,  ad- 
justing her  long  dark  hair  to  his  own  requirements. 

“Why,  you’re  so  nervous,”  said  a woman  interviewer.  “You’re  like  a 
little  deer.  Remember  how  Iphigenia  was  turned  into  a deer?  'That’s  you.” 

“I  don’t  think  Iphigenia  was  turned  into  a deer,”  said  Elena.  “Someone 
she  was  going  to  sacrifice  turned  into  a deer.” 

“Oh,  I don’t  set  any  store  by  those  silly  old  m5dhs,”  said  the  inter- 
viewer, with  a vexed  laugh.  “Where  did  you  pick  up  this  classical  stuff 
anyway?” 

“I’ve  discussed  it  with  my  history  teacher,”  said  Elena.  And  thus 
sprang  up  another  strand  of  the  news  story:  the  shy  pupil  in  love  with 
her  earnest  young  teacher.  A photographer  was  dispatched  immediately 
to  her  school. 

Like  Iphigenia  trapped  in  Tauris,  Elena  was  certainly  trapped  in  Ath- 
ens, day  after  day,  as  a guest  of  the  Prime  Minister.  She  was  given  a 
room  in  a small  hotel  in  the  busy  part  of  the  city,  with  her  mother  for 
company.  Her  Aunt  Sophia,  respectful  now,  came  to  visit  and  brought 
sweet  cakes,  and  offered  advice  about  how  all  the  money  should  be  in- 
vested. As  for  the  Youth  Lottery,  it  was  re-named  Elena’s  Lottery  and 
sold  twice  as  many  tickets  as  formerly  under  its  new  title. 

One  reason  for  Elena’s  detention  in  Athens  was  that  her  legend  spread 
far  and  wide.  Foreign  journalists  arrived  from  abroad,  from  Italy  emd 
Spain  and  France,  while  a whole  television  team  arrived  fi'om  Germany. 
The  Greek  tourist  board  sent  an  important  official  to  advise  Elena  on 
what  to  say.  The  board  foresaw — correctly — that  Elena  was  a valuable 
adjunct  to  the  tourist  trade. 

A day  came  when  Elena  had  no  appointments  and  she  asked  Elizabeth 
if  they  might  return  home.  Elizabeth  said  that  since  she  had  the  day 
free,  she  could  do  whatever  she  liked.  Elena  pouted  and  made  no  re- 
sponse; there  was  nothing  in  Athens  she  wished  to  do.  She  stared  out  of 
the  window  at  the  busy  street,  with  pedestrians  spilling  out  eunong  the 
congested  traffic.  Ants  again! 

'The  phone  rang.  Elizabeth  answered.  On  the  line  was  a man  who 
described  himself  as  a media  producer  and  originator.  He  wanted  to 
structure  a new  game  show,  probably  to  be  called  “Golden  Fortunes,” 
around  Elena.  He  referred  to  Elena  as  a “magic  personality.”  He  was 
calling  from  Sydney,  Australia.  He  wanted  to  fly  over  and  discuss  the 
project,  in  which  big  money  was  involved.  He  assured  Mrs.  Papoulias  that 
everyone  in  Australia  knew  about  her  daughter,  and  how  everything  she 
touched  turned  to  gold.  Ideal  for  hostessing  a game  show. 

After  giving  a noncommital  answer,  Elizabeth  put  the  phone  down. 
She  had  turned  very  pale.  The  producer’s  words  brought  her  husband 
vividly  to  mind.  If  Costas,  on  the  loose  in  Australia,  heard  of  his  youngest 
daughter’s  fortune,  doubtless  he  would  come  scurrying  on  the  trail  of 
money  and  they  would  all  be  in  trouble.  Why,  he  might  even  kidnap 
Elena.  You  heard  of  such  things  happening. 

“Elena,  my  dear,”  Elizabeth  said.  “I  don’t  think  it  is  wise  to  go  home. 

THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN  149 


I think  we  should  stay  in  Athens.  Athens  is  a big  city.  We  must  buy  a 
nice  house  in  the  suburbs,  perhaps  in  New  Philadelphia,  and  change  our 
neime  from  Papoulias.  Perhaps  a house  with  two  stories  and  a little 
garden  and  a swing  and — ” She  paused  before  offering  the  final  titbit. 
“A  swimming  pool. . . .” 

To  her  astonishment,  Elena  gave  a small  scream  and  rushed  from  the 
room.  As  she  went,  she  knocked  flying  a plate  of  cakes  Aunt  Sophia  had 
brought  them.  Elizabeth  jumped  up  but  her  daughter  had  gone,  slam- 
ming the  door  behind  her.  Downstairs  she  rushed,  straight  out  into  the 
street.  A passing  motorcyclist  knocked  her  down. 

BAD  LUCK  FOR  GOOD  FORTUNE  ELENA!  screamed  the  newspaper 
headlines.  ATHENIAN  WONDER  GIRL  IN  COMA. 

In  only  a few  hours — indeed,  before  night  fell  in  Athens — strange  re- 
ports were  arriving  from  all  quarters.  The  Moon  had  disappeared. 

The  news  from  various  battlefronts  eiround  the  world,  or  from  famine- 
struck  countries  in  Africa,  even  the  concern  for  Elena,  was  as  nothing 
to  this  alarming  news.  The  Moon  had  vanished  as  if  it  had  never  existed. 

MOON  DOOM.  PRESIDENT  DENIES  U.S.  INVOLVEMENT. 

There  was  no  accounting  for  it,  although  many  experts  were  dragged 
in  to  have  their  say.  Earth’s  beautiful  satellite,  the  subject  of  poems, 
dreams,  aspirations  and  other  mental  states  since  before  history  began, 
was  no  more.  It  simply  ceased  to  exist,  leaving  not  a moonbeam  behind. 

In  the  long  term,  the  effect  its  absence  would  have  was  incalculable. 
In  the  short  term,  ocean  tides  would  die  away.  It  was  useless  for  astrono- 
mers to  point  out  that  in  fact  the  sun  raised  tides  too,  though  with  only 
a third  of  the  Moon’s  power.  The  collapse  of  tidal  waters  would  spell 
unwonted  change.  Since  the  Mediterranean  and  Aegean  were  almost 
tideless,  local  effects  would  be  slight.  So  Athenians  were  assured  by  their 
journalists. 

News  of  something  much  more  alarming  took  longer  to  seep  through. 
The  Greek  language  had  changed.  Changed  beyond  recognition. 

No  Greeks  noticed  this  freakish  phenomenon.  It  was  diplomats,  export- 
ers, foreigners,  tourists,  anyone  who  had  been  at  pains  to  learn  some- 
thing of  the  language,  who  announced  the  truth.  Their  claims  were  im- 
mediately dismissed.  But  no,  the  Greeks  were  talking  a different 
language  from  formerly,  even  from  the  previous  day.  When  anyone 
checked  with  yesterday’s  videos,  or  with  LPs  and  CDs  and  cassettes,  they 
found  that  everyone  was  speaking  or  singing  in  a tongue  now  completely 
incomprehensible  to  them.  The  new  language  had  a different  root  struc- 
ture and  was  compatible  with  no  other  on  Earth. 

Chaos  broke  out.  Language  schools  closed,  re-opened,  closed  for  good. 
Men  and  women  in  the  Greek  diplomatic  service  overseas  shot  them- 
selves. 

Other  alarming  news  was  ignored  for  the  time  being;  that  physical 
constants  had  changed  meant  little  to  the  man  in  the  street.  As  startled 
physicists  were  soon  able  to  prove,  the  energy  equation  was  now 


150 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


E = 

From  now  on,  a great  deal  more  matter  would  be  needed  to  produce 
one  joule  of  energy.  Nuclear  power  plants  started  to  go  out  of  business. 

While  all  these  arbitrary  and  inexplicable  events  were  unfolding, 
Elena  Papoulias  lay  unconscious  in  a hospital  bed.  She  had  a room  to 
herself,  into  which  only  medicos,  nurses,  and  her  mother  were  allowed. 
But  it  was  Elena’s  superstitious  Uncle  Constandine  who  waylaid  the 
doctors. 

“I  alone  know  what  the  problem  is,”  he  said.  “I  have  a diagnosis.  I can 
tell  you  what  is  wrong.” 

“Elena  is  best  left  quietly  in  our  care,  thank  you,”  the  hospital  doctors 
said. 

So  Dr.  Houdris  went  on  television. 

The  essence  of  Houdris’s  claim  was  that  there  had  once  been  a war  in 
Heaven.  As  he  reminded  viewers,  both  Greek  pagan  myths  and  Christian 
faiths  contained  references  to  this  war.  Many  other  myths  featured  vari- 
ants of  the  same  story;  the  Norse  legend  of  Ragnarok,  for  instance,  spoke 
of  the  battle  between  good  and  evil  gods.  One  of  the  great  gods,  weary  of 
this  endless  war,  had  descended  to  take  reftige  inside  his  niece,  Elena 
Papoulias. 

“All  the  god  wants  is  rest.  He  sleeps  inside  Elena.  And  what  is  he 
dreaming?” 

Houdris’s  interviewer  said  suavely,  “Possibly  you  can  tell  us  what  the 
god  is  dreaming?” 

Houdris  smoothed  his  moustache  as  if  to  indicate  he  had  the  inter- 
viewer trapped  and  replied,  “He  is  dreaming  our  entire  universe.  We  are 
all  figments  of  the  god’s  dream.” 

The  interviewer  laughed  with  only  a trace  of  amusement.  “This  is 
getting  pretty  wild.  Dr.  Houdris.  How  do  you  know  all  this?” 

Houdris’s  eyes  gleamed  behind  his  pink  lenses.  There  was  no  doubt  in 
his  mind,  he  said.  How  else  could  the  aberrations  in  what  had  been 
hitherto  regarded  as  fixed  laws — constants — be  explained  except  by  un- 
derstanding that  all  were  figments  of  a cosmic  dream?  No,  he  was  not 
being  unscientific.  He  was  being  scientific  by  deducing  facts  from  evi- 
dence. Elena’s  accident  had  caused  the  god’s  slumber  to  be  disturbed,  its 
dream  to  be  disrupted — hence  the  vanished  moon  and  the  rest  of  it. 
Perhaps  it  almost  woke  up  from  its  sleep. 

“And  if  the  god  did  wake  up?”  inquired  the  interviewer,  now  unable 
to  suppress  the  scorn  in  his  voice. 

“Then  our  universe  would  burst  like  a bubble,  because  it  is  just  a 
dream. . . .” 

“What  has  the  damp  sea  wind  brought  to  my  family?”  Elizabeth  Papou- 
lias asked  herself  in  the  quiet  of  the  hospital  room.  She  sat  beside  her 
daughter’s  bed,  trying  to  shake  herself  from  one  of  her  dark  moods.  With 
sorrow  she  regarded  Elena’s  closed  eyes  and  silent  face. 

“Stop  being  miserable,  Lizzie,”  she  told  herself.  The  doctors  declared 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


151 


that  Elena  would  recover.  After  all,  everything  was  wonderful.  Would 
there  be  a grander  moment  in  her  life  than  when  she  and  Elena  had 
ridden  beside  the  Prime  Minister  in  his  special  car,  through  cheering 
Athenian  crowds?  Of  course  she  had  been  proud.  The  Prime  Minister 
had  made  a speech,  holding  Elena’s  hand  some  of  the  time  as  he  spoke. 
“Greece,”  he  had  boasted,  “is  now  the  most  famous  country  in  the  world.” 

She  had  thought  at  the  time  how  well  it  had  sounded,  had  repeated 
the  words  to  Sophia  and  Constandine.  Later,  a member  of  an  opposition 
party  had  laughed  and  said,  “Greece  was  always  the  most  famous  country 
in  the  world.  What’s  the  old  idiot  on  about?”  Then  Elizabeth  had  been 
embarrassed,  thinking  that  she  had  been  unable  to  perceive  the  foolish- 
ness of  the  P.M.’s  speech  for  herself. 

And  she  was  involved  with  the  foolishness.  That  brought  her  to  the 
nub  of  her  cogitations.  She  was  just  a peasant,  a simple  country  wench 
at  heart.  Many  of  her  fellow  countrymen  went  abroad  to  work,  to  Austra- 
lia and  America  and  elsewhere,  and  returned  much  improved  and  richer. 
She  had  got  no  further  than  Athens,  and  not  on  her  own  merits.  She  was 
richer,  yes,  but  she  told  herself  she  was  unimproved.  The  elevated  mood 
she  had  enjoyed  at  the  Temple  of  Aphaia  was  forgotten. 

Here  she  was  putting  on  weight,  not  yet  forty  and  putting  on  weight, 
eating  sweet  cakes  every  day  in  smart  restaurants.  A neighbor  was 
looking  after  her  three  older  daughters — a disgrace  in  itself. 

To  gaze  out  at  the  ceaseless  traffic  rumbling  under  the  window  was 
tiring.  She  paced  about  the  hospital  room.  Elena  lay  silent  in  the  bed, 
eyes  closed— dreaming  of  who  knows  what? 

Looking  down  at  her  daughter,  Elizabeth  thought  to  herself.  This  at 
least  is  beautiful  and  good  and  innocent.  Perhaps  that’s  why  she  was 
chosen  by  the  gods.  If  only  we  could  return  to  existence  as  it  was  long  ago 
in  the  Golden  Age  of  Greece,  when  there  were  only  goddesses  . . . then  we 
wouldn’t  have  to  suffer  having  our  lives  messed  about  by  men. . . . 

She  brightened  up.  It  was  nearing  five  in  the  afternoon.  Almost  time 
to  meet  her  sister  and  some  friends  in  a neighboring  cafe.  They  would 
have  a good  chat;  most  of  them  were  country  people  at  heart,  however 
smartly  they  dressed.  And  Elizabeth  had  a new  dress  to  show  off.  There 
would  be  chocolate  cake.  . . . Elena  was  safe  where  she  was. 

Since  the  majority  of  people  never  know  what  to  think,  even  at  the 
best  of  times,  they  derive  their  opinions  from  what  others  say,  and  pass 
them  off  as  their  own.  Thus,  many  people  all  round  the  world  began  to 
nod  in  agreement  when  they  heard  the  Houdris  Hypothesis,  as  it  was 
dubbed.  They  had,  they  said,  always  known  the  whole  of  existence  was 
a dream  and  not  what  politicians  and  scientists  claimed  it  was. 

Some  of  them  began  to  ask,  “Why  does  everyone  hate  work  so  much?” 
And  answered  their  own  question,  “Because  work  has  no  part  in 
Dreamland.” 

The  Greek  government  hurriedly  assembled  a special  committee  of 
inquiry  to  investigate  the  matter  of  Elena  Papoulias. 


152 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


A senior  German  philosopher  was  flown  in  from  Munich  to  address  the 
committee. 

“While  we  have  yet  to  discover  why  the  Moon  has  disappeared,  why 
energy  has  taken  a turn  for  the  worse,  and  why  your  language  has 
changed  overnight,  solutions  to  these  unexpected  problems  will  be  found. 
Scientific  solutions.  My  colleagues  believe  that  the  solar  system  happens 
to  be  passing  through  an  unsuspected  cosmic  flaw.  Once  we  are  through 
the  flaw,  everything  will  revert  to  normal. 

“As  for  the  young  Papoulias  girl’s  connection  with  these  events,  it  is 
merely  coincidental,  and  an  invention  of  the  popular  press. 

“Let  me  speak  briefly  concerning  what  has  been  called  the  Houdris 
Hypothesis,  that  existence  is  a dream  from  which  we  shall  all  wake.  It 
is,  of  course,  complete  nonsense,  designed  to  scare  old  women.  Excuse 
me,  old  men. 

“This  absurdly  named  hypothesis  is  based  merely  on  deductive  reason- 
ing. Deductive  reasoning  from  self-evident  premises  provides  us  with  no 
sound  knowledge  of  the  world.  It  must  be  observation  which  supplies  the 
premises  on  which  we  base  our  knowledge,  and  observation  requires 
modem  scientific  knowledge,  not  irrational  guesses.  We  need  to  know 
precisely  the  time  when  the  Moon  left  its  orbit,  in  which  direction  it  is 
now  heading,  at  what  velocity,  etc.  We  need  to  know  precisely  the  nature 
of  the  language  you  now  speak  in  Greece,  its  roots,  etc.  and  when  exactly 
you  began  to  speak  it.  Possibly  you  are  as  a nation — I only  say  ‘possi- 
bly’— suffering  from  a form  of  mass  hallucination.  As  to  the  collapse  of 
the  mass-energy  equation,  that  may  be  simply  explained  as  a technical 
mistake  somewhere,  though  admittedly  there  does  seem  to  be  less  sun- 
light reaching  the  Earth  just  now.  This  could  be  caused  by  sunspots,  or 
some  other  solar  phenomenon.” 

'The  professor  paused  impressively. 

“What  we  require  a non-scientifically  trained  populace  to  understand 
is  that  our  modem  knowledge  of  the  universe  is  based  on  both  deduction 
and  induction.  Deduction  alone,  which  the  Houdris  idea  offers  us,  is  an 
example  of  pre-scientific  thinking.  It  will  not  stand  once  the  scientific 
data  comes  in.  Our  knowledge  of  the  universe  is  based  on  true  facts 
and  measurements  gleaned  from  many  disciplines.  How  then  could  the 
universe  be  a dream?  The  notion  is  preposterous.” 

He  sat  down. 

A Greek  philosopher  stood  up.  He  was  an  old  man,  who  clutched  the 
back  of  a chair  set  before  him  to  support  himself.  His  voice  was  thin,  but 
he  spoke  clearly  enough. 

“My  friend  from  Munich  is  himself  falling  into  unscientific  ways  by 
deriding  the  dream  theory  without  examining  it.  For  countless  centuries, 
humanity  has  been  haunted  by  the  belief  that  all  life  is  a dream.  You 
will  recall  the  celebrated  case  of  the  Chinese  philosopher,  Chuang  Tzu, 
who  dreamed  he  was  a butterfly  and,  on  waking,  could  not  tell  if  he  was 
Chuang  Tzu  who  had  dreamed  he  was  a butterfly  or  a butterfly  now 
dreaming  it  was  Chuang  Tzu.  Does  not  the  science  of  subatomic  physics 


THE  GOO  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


153 


show  that  all  we  regard  as  solid  matter  is  really  a cosmic  dance  of  waves 
and  particles  incapable  of  explanation? 

“For  my  own  part,  I see  nothing  particularly  fantastic  in  the  belief 
that  our  whole  extraordinary  universe  is  someone  or  something’s  dream. 

“Let  me  ask  you  all  this.  Rational  knowledge — the  accumulation  of 
facts — has  immensely  increased  over  the  ages.  Yet  why  is  it  that  what 
we  may  call  absolute  knowledge  hasn’t  increased  one  jot  since  the  days  of 
Socrates  and  the  Buddha?  As  Chuang  Tzu,  whom  I’ve  already  mentioned, 
said,  ‘If  it  could  be  talked  about,  everyone  would  have  told  their  brother.’ 
Doesn’t  that  suggest  that  everything  is  arbitrary'? 

“My  friend’s  argument  places  overmuch  trust  in  empirical  knowledge. 
Instead  of  seeking  human  understanding,  he  would  rely  on  scientific 
instruments.  Very  well.  Telescopes  do  not  lie.  But  all  our  knowledge  of 
the  outside  world — and  of  the  inside  world,  come  to  that — rests  ulti- 
mately on  our  senses.  What  are  those  senses  made  of?  Protoplasm,  a 
kind  of  jelly.  There  is  no  sort  of  proof  which  can  convince  us  that  our 
senses,  our  perceptions,  bring  us  a definitive  truth  about  the  world.  In- 
deed, we  know  that  world-pictures  change  almost  from  century  to  cen- 
tury. They  are  perforce  subjective. 

“All  ultimately  is  a matter  of  interpretation  according  to  . . . well,  ac- 
cording to  what  I don’t  know.  Temperament,  perhaps?  Certainly  we  all 
have  different  outlooks  on  the  world.  My  brother — dead  now,  alas — and 
I could  never  agree  about  anything.  There  are  people  even  today  who 
claim  our  planet  is  flat,  and  can  advance  so-called  proof  of  it. . . . People 
seem  to  live  equally  happily  with  or  without  a belief  in  God. 

“So  what  do  I think  in  conclusion?  That’s  briefly  said,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. I believe  that  the  greatest  care  should  be  taken  of  little  Elena 
Papoulias.  One  more  shock  like  her  street  accident  and  we  may  suddenly 
find — well,  permit  me  to  quote  Shakespeare — 

“The  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve. 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 

Leave  not  a rack  behind.  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on.  . . .” 

Elena  sat  up  in  the  hospital  bed,  struggling  with  the  pillows.  She 
looked  about  her  room.  A shaded  light  burned  by  her  bedside;  a blue 
Athenian  night  pressed  against  the  window  panes.  On  the  couch  beside 
her  bed,  Elizabeth  slept,  her  face  turned  from  the  light.  Flowers  from 
well-wishers  were  ranged  all  round  the  room.  A buoyant  sense  of  health, 
more  potent  than  medicine,  filled  Elena.  She  smiled  and  stretched.  Her 
wounds  and  bandages  had  disappeared. 

“Thank  you,  dear  little  god,”  she  whispered,  stroking  her  stomach. 

Climbing  out  of  bed,  she  dressed  as  quietly  as  possible  so  as  not  to 
disturb  her  mother.  As  she  crept  from  the  room,  impulse  made  her  seize 
up  a bunch  of  chrysanthemums  from  a jam  jar.  With  these  she  proceeded 


154 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


down  the  corridor.  All  was  quiet.  The  hospital  at  this  pre-dawn  hour 
echoed  with  silence. 

When  she  reached  the  foyer,  a night  receptionist  roused  from  a doze 
and  stared  at  her  curiously.  With  her  face  half-hidden  by  flowers,  Elena 
said,  “These  have  to  be  taken  immediately  to  someone  ill  in  the  Hilton 
Hotel.  Please  let  me  out.” 

The  receptionist  yawned  and  pressed  a button.  When  one  of  the  side 
doors  unlocked,  Elena  opened  it  and  walked  through  into  the  first  suspi- 
cions of  dawn.  Though  the  street  was  deserted,  it  still  held  the  stale  tang 
of  car  and  bus  exhausts,  but  she  breathed  it  with  gratitude  and  set  off 
at  a good  pace.  She  dropped  the  flowers  on  top  of  the  first  plastic  garbage 
bag  she  came  across.  Where  she  was  going  she  hardly  knew  or  cared;  all 
she  wanted  was  to  be  free. 

Light  was  seeping  back  into  the  world  when  she  found  herself  on 
Ahamon,  strolling  north.  She  realized  she  was  enjoying  Athens  for  the 
first  time,  seeing  the  city  wake  to  a new  day.  The  few  people  who  were 
about  walked  slowly,  as  if  convalescing  from  sleep.  Some  of  them  bid  her 
good  morning.  A bakery  was  opening,  filling  the  street  outside  with  the 
smell  of  fresh  bread. 

Persephone,  Artemis,  and  Rea  would  be  waking  now,  preparing  for 
their  long  daily  journey  to  school.  Elena  missed  their  company  and  the 
cozy  aromas  of  four  girls  growing  up  and  sleeping  in  that  little  pretty 
room  with  the  blue  wallpaper.  From  their  one  window  you  could  see  the 
line  of  the  sea,  and  occasionally  a ferry  on  it,  heading  for  the  islands. 

At  one  point  she  became  aware  she  was  being  followed.  In  the  reflection 
of  a shop  window  she  saw  him,  a chunky  adolescent  with  fair  hair,  only 
a few  years  older  than  Elena  herself,  wearing  a dirty  T-shirt  and  scruffy 
trousers.  An  unwashed  sort  of  fellow,  she  thought,  who  had  never  seen 
a comb  in  his  life.  She  quickened  her  pace.  The  youth  ambled  along  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  keeping  her  in  view. 

She  was  passing  a telephone  booth  standing  outside  a church  when 
the  phone  started  ringing.  On  impulse,  as  if  directed,  Elena  entered  the 
booth  and  picked  up  the  receiver. 

“Elena,  is  that  you?  Good.  Listen,  this  is  your  dad.  How  eu-e  you?” 

She  was  not  amazed.  “I’m  fine.  Where  are  you?”  She  was  not  amazed 
to  hear  his  voice  for  the  first  time. 

“I’m  calling  from  a one-eyed  hole  in  Australia,  outside  Adelaide.”  The 
voice  carried  an  echo  with  it;  she  knew  this  meant  a satellite  link-up.  It 
was  thin,  almost  flavorless,  squeezed  through  cable,  freeze-dried  in  the 
stratosphere. 

“Are  you  going  to  come  back  to  us.  Daddy?”  She  withheld  too  much 
hope  from  the  question. 

“Hang  on,  where’s  your  mother?  Give  me  her  number  and  I’ll  call  her. 
Listen,  I’m  going  to  be  back  in  Greece  just  as  soon  as  I can  make  it.  I’ve 
been  down  on  my  luck,  Elena.  Don’t  listen  to  anything  your  mother  tells 
you.  My  trouble  is,  I have  a pathological  dread  of  hard  work.  A doctor 
told  me  it  was  inherited.” 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


155 


“So  when  will  you  be  here,  Daddy?  We’ll  all  be  glad  to  see  you.” 

“I  have  to  be  careful,  girl.  Don’t  tell  anyone  I phoned.  I’m  going  to  look 
after  you  properly.  How’d  you  like  to  live  in  with  your  old  dad?” 

“And  my  sisters  as  well?  What  about  Rea  and — ” 

“Oh,  blast  it — ” said  the  distant  nasal  voice  on  the  other  end  of  the 
phone,  and  the  connection  was  broken  off. 

Elena  went  and  sat  in  a little  corner  caf6  which  was  just  opening.  She 
ordered  a Nescafe  as  she  considered  the  conversation.  She  could  not 
conceal  from  herself  that  it  was  not  the  best  of  conversations.  All  the 
same,  it  would  certainly  be  good  to  have  her  father  back.  She  could  not 
understand  his  insistence  on  secrecy. 

The  woman  behind  the  bar  kept  staring.  Whenever  she  saw  Elena 
looking  at  her,  she  switched  on  a false  smile.  A heavy  woman,  she  sup- 
ported her  torso  with  elbows  on  the  counter.  Elena  tried  to  ignore  her. 

Pale  early  sunshine  slowly  filled  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  She 
saw  that  the  combless  youth  was  still  hanging  around,  pretending  non- 
chalance, lighting  a cigarette.  At  the  same  moment,  she  realized  that 
she  had  no  money  with  which  to  pay  for  her  coffee,  or  to  hire  a taxi  back 
to  the  safety  of  the  hospital  and  her  mother.  She  was  trapped  at  her 
table. 

Behind  the  bar,  the  woman  was  looking  alternately  at  Elena  and  at 
the  screen  of  a little  television  set,  snuggled  by  the  cash  register  on  her 
bar.  A man  came  in,  carrying  crates  of  mineral  water  from  a van  parked 
outside  the  cafe.  After  conferring  with  him,  the  woman  made  a phone 
call.  Elena  became  anxious  in  case  this  pantomime  involved  her;  she  sat 
paralyzed  over  her  cooling  coffee.  “Do  something,  will  you?”  she  whis- 
pered to  the  god  within  her. 

Almost  at  once,  the  woman  came  over  from  behind  the  bar,  walking 
clumsily. 

“You  don’t  have  to  pay  for  that  coffee,”  she  said,  flicking  her  automatic 
smile  on  and  off  again.  “It’s  free  to  you.”  She  gestured  toward  the  cup. 

Elena  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

The  woman  said,  by  way  of  explaining  her  generosity,  “Well,  you’re  a 
goddess,  aren’t  you?  So  you’re  welcome  to  the  Nescafe.  It  says  on  TV  the 
whole  city’s  looking  for  you  at  this  very  moment.” 

“I’m  not  a goddess.”  She  pouted,  disliking  this  weighty  person.  “I’m 
just  an  ordinary  girl.  I go  to  school,  like  my  sisters.” 

The  woman  clutched  her  apron.  Looking  around  as  if  for  help,  she  said, 
“I’m  not  going  to  argue  with  you,  miss.  I know  who  you  are.  You’re  the 
one  who  made  the  Moon  disappear.  I don’t  want  this  cafe  disappearing 
or  anything  nasty  like  that.  Please  leave  without  causing  trouble.” 

“That’s  plain  silly,”  said  Elena,  conscious  as  she  spoke  that  she  had 
never  addressed  an  adult  in  this  manner  before. 

“Silly,  is  it?  For  all  I know  you’re  one  of  the  old  lot  come  back — Nemesis 
or  one  of  the  Erinyes,  the  Furies.  All  the  money  I borrowed  from  the  till 
I shall  most  certainly  pay  back,  believe  me.” 

“It’s  got  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I just  wanted  a coffee.” 


156 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


“All  right,  you’ve  had  your  coffee,  miss,  now  please  leave.  Take  a bun 
with  you,  if  you  like.  I’ll  pay  for  it.  Gladly.” 

When  Elena  rose  to  go,  the  woman  backed  nervously  away.  Elena  saw 
how  poor  and  broken  her  shoes  were. 

“Thank  you  for  the  coffee.  It  was  very  nice.” 

She  was  hesitating  to  leave  when  a police  car  came  screaming  to  the 
door.  'Two  police  officers  climbed  out,  surveyed  the  street,  and  entered 
the  cafe.  Both  addressed  Elena  politely.  They  said  they  would  like  to 
escort  Elena  back  to  the  hospital — if  she  was  willing  to  accompany  them. 

As  she  climbed  into  the  back  of  their  car,  the  combless  youth  watched 
from  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

Apartments  were  being  prepared  on  the  roof  of  the  hospital,  according 
to  government  orders.  Painters  and  decorators  had  been  here  earlier,  but 
had  broken  off  from  work  and  not  reappeared.  Elizabeth  walked  alone 
in  the  empty  rooms.  Sounds  of  traffic  were  muted. 

“It  is  not  true  that  you  are  merely  a peasant  woman,”  said  a voice  in 
her  head.  “Nor  is  it  true  that  you  are  old.  Nor  is  it  true  that  you  hate 
your  husband.” 

“It’s  true  I’m  getting  a bit  fat,”  she  said,  looking  round  defensively  to 
see  if  anyone  was  there.  “Who  are  you,  anyway?  What  do  you  mean?”  It 
was  impossible  to  determine  whether  the  voice,  so  even  and  clear,  was 
male  or  female. 

The  voice  said,  “I’m  telling  you  things  you  don’t  know  and  you  do  know 
at  the  same  time.  Eternal  truths  are  not  expressible  in  words.  You  are 
growing  older;  you  are  also  eternally  youthful.  You  are  helpless;  yet 
there  is  infinite  power  within  you.  There  are  no  gods;  but  you  are  godlike 
yourself.  The  universe  is  no  dream;  though  it  has  all  the  qualities  of  a 
dream.” 

Elizabeth  backed  against  a wall.  “Am  I going  crazy?  What  is  all  this 
crap?  You’re  to  do  with  Elena,  aren’t  you?  Go  and  speak  to  her.  She’s 
only  downstairs.”  Her  eyes  tried  to  see  behind  the  emptiness  of  the  empty 
room. 

“All  humans  know  such  things  about  themselves.  They  have  the  power 
to  make  the  world  begin  anew,  yet  do  not  use  it.  Until  you  grasp  that 
fact,  you  will  continue  to  be  your  usual  unsatisfactory  self,  looking  use- 
lessly for  somewhere  to  hide.” 

“Bugger  you — excuse  my  language.  I’m  happy  with  myself  as  I am. 
How  could  I get  together  with  Costas  again?  Come  off  it!” 

And  the  voice  replied,  “By  making  a new  start.  Because  you  are  not 
happy  with  yourself  as  you  are;  what  about  your  black  moods  of  depres- 
sion? Elizabeth  Papoulias,  I shall  speak  to  you  only  this  once,  so  heed 
me.  Your  youngest  daughter,  having  been  chosen,  must  go  elsewhere. 
She  must  join  us.  But  you — you  must  remain  here,  wherever  you  consider 
here  to  be.  You  must  realize  yourself  fully  and  create  a new  world,  for 
yourself  and  others.” 

She  clutched  her  head.  She  shook  her  head.  She  stamped  her  foot.  She 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


157 


clapped  her  hands  together  once.  “Go  away,  damn  you!  We  mortals  have 
to  settle  for  the  present  world  as  it  is,  don’t  we?  Don’t  we?  Surely?” 

“Then  why  pray?”  With  mockery  in  its  laughter,  the  voice  asked,  “And 
if  the  old  world  is  crumbling.  . . .” 

Darting  about  the  room,  cursing,  Elizabeth  called,  “Are  you  the  forgot- 
ten Aphaia  to  whom  I was  daft  enough  to  pray  on  Aegina?  Are  you  god 
or  goddess,  or  am  I going  mad?” 

No  answer  came.  The  unfinished  room  was  suddenly  emptier  than  it 
had  ever  been.  She  stood  waiting  in  the  midst  of  the  space.  Nothing 
happened.  What  was  truth,  what  deception,  what  a trick  of  the  senses? 

Going  over  to  the  window,  she  looked  down  at  the  Athenian  traffic. 
Was  there  a higher  reality  than  that  mechanical  muddle?  In  a piercing 
moment  of  introspection,  she  knew  that  there  was,  that  the  treiffic  had  no 
more  duration  in  time  than  the  gasoline  on  which  its  engines  depended. 

But  under  her  breath  she  repeated  an  old  saying,  “Whom  the  gods  love 
they  first  make  mad.”  Was  that  how  it  went?  She  thought  so,  but  being 
an  ignorant  peasant  woman  she  was  uncertain. 

She  went  downstairs  to  find  her  daughter. 

Dr.  Constandine  Houdris  was  not  a bad  man.  Like  the  rest  of  human- 
ity, he  had  his  problems.  Ambition  was  one  of  the  traits  which  made  his 
life  uncomfortable.  Appearing  on  television  a few  times  convinced  him 
that  he  was  someone  of  importance.  He  was  anxious  to  maintain  this 
illusion,  both  in  his  own  mind  and  in  that  of  the  general  public.  Even  if 
life  were  a dream,  as  he  had  declared,  he  was  determined  to  make  his 
name  in  it;  he  was  no  philosopher. 

Another  little  problem  to  vex  him  was  his  relationship  with  his  wife. 
The  creamy  cakes  to  which  Sophia  was  addicted  had  transformed  the 
slender  young  girl  he  married  into  a portly  lady  who  suffered  from 
breathlessness  and  leg  trouble.  Houdris  was  not  cross  with  Sophia  on 
this  account;  although  he  could  scarcely  bear  to  acknowledge  the  fact  to 
himself,  he  realized  that  creamy  cakes  were  probably  Sophia’s  way  of 
compensating  for  his  waning  interest  in  her.  He  accepted  that  the  world 
was  as  it  was:  no  more  perfect  than  the  creatures  who  inhabited  the 
dream.  Changing  it  was  not  within  the  compass  of  his  aspirations. 

Houdris  had  his  compensations.  Many  attractive  women  visited  his 
surgery  with  one  complaint  or  another.  Often  it  was  necessary  for  these 
ladies  to  remove  their  clothes  in  order  to  be  examined.  The  doctor’s  little 
pink  lenses  were  not  the  only  ones  turned  on  this  display  of  nudity;  he 
had  rigged  up  hidden  cameras  which  recorded  each  examination,  so  that 
he  could  enjoy  at  leisure  the  beauty  of  the  female  form.  Among  this 
collection  of  photographs  were  several  of  his  niece,  Elena  Papoulias,  in 
various  positions. 

Now  that  Elena  was  famous,  and  more  than  famous,  these  pictures 
had  market  value:  though  the  doctor  put  it  to  himself  in  another  way. 
Scientific  value.  Decorating  his  reminiscences — or  perhaps  a booklet  of 


158 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


sexual  advice  to  young  ladies — these  pictures  could  only  increase  his 
fame. 

He  made  a deal  with  a publisher,  who  made  a deal  with  a top-circula- 
tion glossy  magazine,  which  published  six  studies  of  Elena  naked.  In  no 
time,  these  pictures  of  a pretty  girl,  in  the  first  flush  of  puberty,  traveled 
across  the  world,  leaping  from  country  to  country,  bookstall  to  bookstall, 
cover  to  cover. 

Meanwhile,  the  relationship  between  Elizabeth  and  Sophia  was  chang- 
ing. They  had  become  close,  developing  a connoisseur’s  fondness  for 
cream  cakes.  Sophia  no  longer  patronized;  if  anything,  she  fawned.  Eliza- 
beth and  her  daughter  were  now  installed  more  comfortably  in  the  hospi- 
tal, for  observation  and  gynecological  studies.  Every  morning,  Elizabeth 
sallied  forth  with  her  sister;  they  went  looking  for  a discreet  property 
for  Elizabeth  to  buy.  Since  Elizabeth  had  received  a phone  call  from 
Costas,  she  considered  it  a matter  of  urgency  to  find  a place  in  which  she 
could  hide  from  her  husband. 

Sophia  agreed  that  no  voices  in  the  head  should  distract  her  from  the 
quest;  besides,  looking  at  houses  was  fun. 

The  sisters  met  as  usual  in  Omonia  one  morning,  lingering  over  a 
plate  of  cakes,  before  catching  a taxi  to  investigate  a house  for  sale  in 
one  of  the  outer  suburbs. 

“I  shall  have  to  have  a guard  dog,”  said  Elizabeth. 

“You  can  afford  two,  dear,”  said  Sophia.  “Big  brutes  with  bad  tempers.” 
She  had  never  liked  Costas.  But  she  was  downcast  this  morning,  as  they 
rolled  across  the  congested  city,  and  felt  forced  to  reveal  to  Elizabeth 
that  she  had  some  bad  news.  So  saying,  she  drew  from  her  bag  a folded 
copy  of  the  Greek  edition  of  Elle  Mime.  She  unveiled  to  her  sister  the 
nude  pictures  of  Elena,  photographed  by  Constandine. 

Elizabeth  broke  down  and  wept  for  the  shame  of  it.  “Woe!  Woe!  What’s 
life  worth  if  relations  can  do  such  things  to  me?  It’s  a disgrace  to  the 
family!  Such  naughty  pictures!” 

“And  Costas  may  see  them,”  Sophia  blubbered.  “I’ll  divorce  that  wretch 
Constandine,  see  if  I don’t.” 

'The  taxi  driver  looked  around  to  ask  what  the  trouble  was.  Tears  in 
her  eyes,  Sophia  told  him.  The  driver  pulled  over  to  the  curb.  Infected 
by  Elizabeth’s  misery,  both  Sophia  and  the  driver  joined  in  the  general 
weeping.  The  latter  seized  Elle  Mime  and  gazed  at  the  pictures  through 
his  tears. 

“Lovely,”  he  said,  “What  pretty  tits!,”  and  burst  out  crying  afresh. 

When  they  had  all  dried  their  eyes,  they  proceeded  to  the  smart  suburb. 
The  driver  stopped  at  a little  kiosk  to  ask  for  final  directions. 

'The  two  women  sat  in  the  car.  They  saw  the  driver  rapt  in  earnest 
conversation  with  the  old  lady  inside  the  kiosk.  Growing  impatient,  So- 
phia tapped  on  the  taxi  window. 

He  returned  to  his  car  pulling  a long  face. 

“Well  then!  Where  is  this  street?  Didn’t  the  old  bitch  know?”  snapped 
Sophia.  “Ask  someone  else,  can’t  you?” 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


159 


The  driver  leant  in  at  the  window,  supporting  himself  rather  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  feels  he  is  about  to  faint. 

“I’ve  got  two  cousins  out  in  Sydney,”  he  said.  “The  kiosk  woman  says 
Australia  has  disappeared.  Just  disappeared  off  the  face  of  the  globe.  . . .” 

Elizabeth  screamed.  She  knew  what  it  meant.  Something  bad  had 
happened  to  her  youngest  daughter. 

That  morning,  Elena  had  been  feeling  content.  One  of  their  neighbors 
from  the  village  had  brought  Yannis  over  in  his  cage,  and  the  little  bird 
was  singing  happily  as  if  glad  to  be  back  in  Elena’s  company.  There  were 
also  affectionate  notes  from  her  sisters,  with  a rude  drawing  of  her  his- 
tory teacher. 

Elena  and  Elizabeth  had  been  moved  into  a penthouse  still  smelling 
slightly  of  fresh  paint,  on  the  top  of  the  hospital  building.  Neither  of 
them  had  ever  seen  such  a smart  place  before.  There  was  even  a Jacuzzi 
and  a neat  little  roof  garden,  while  the  glass  doors  of  the  luxurious  lounge 
looked  out  over  the  flat  roofs  of  Athens  to  the  distant  Acropolis.  The 
lounge  featured  a crystal  chandelier  and  a huge  'TV  set  with  shutters. 
All  this  was  paid  for  by  the  government,  who  wanted  to  keep  an  eye  on 
Elena.  She  was  no  longer  allowed  to  go  out  of  the  hospital  alone. 

Her  contentment  was  increased  by  the  news  that  her  sisters  were  all 
coming  to  stay  for  the  Christmas  holiday.  Certainly  there  was  plenty  of 
room  for  them — although  Elena  now  had  a bedroom  of  her  own. 

In  order  to  surprise  her  sisters,  Elena  sent  out  the  duty  guard  to  buy 
an  electronic  snorting  fluffy  pig  for  Persephone,  a new  electronic  sword- 
and-sorcery  game  for  Artemis,  and  an  electronic  clock  which  spoke  the 
time  for  Rea.  The  state  would  settle  the  bill. 

Despite  the  lateness  of  the  year,  the  day  was  mild.  Elena  had  the  patio 
doors  open  on  to  the  roof,  and  was  trotting  about  barefoot  on  the  thick  pile 
carpet.  She  was  singing  to  Yannis  when  she  turned  and  found  someone 
entering  the  doors. 

She  saw  immediately  it  was  the  uncombed  youth  who  had  been  follow- 
ing her  for  some  while. 

“Don’t  be  frightened,”  he  said,  coming  rapidly  toward  her.  “Fm  not 
going  to  hurt  you.  Saw  the  pictures  of  you!”  He  gave  a nasty  laugh. 

It  was  as  bad  an  opening  to  a conversation  as  she  had  ever  heard. 

She  ran  for  the  broom,  but  he  caught  her  and  seized  her  wrists.  Next 
moment,  she  found  herself  on  the  carpet,  and  the  uncombed  one  on  top 
of  her,  breathing  his  hot  breath  in  her  face. 

It  was  not  only  Australia.  Half  of  New  Zealand  was  gnawed  away, 
together  with  New  Guinea  and  sundry  Pacific  islands.  The  Southern 
Cross  disappeared  at  the  same  time.  What  remained  instead  was  an 
uncreated  space  which  no  one  could  enter  and  no  instruments  detect. 
Engineers  soon  discovered  that  the  value  of  it  was  looking  a little  shaky, 
while  various  shades  of  red  vanished  forever,  everywhere;  Santa  Claus 
wore  grey.  Even  more  disturbing  for  the  general  public  was  the  way  in 


160 


BRIAN  W.  ALOISS 


which  two  seconds  were  found  to  have  seeped  away  from  every  minute. 
Many  people  felt  that  their  lives  had  been  shortened  in  consequence. 

As  a result  of  these  disturbances  in  what  had  hitherto  been  regarded 
as  the  natural  order,  chaos  overwhelmed  civilization.  Various  wars  had 
to  be  canceled.  No  one  would  fly  in  case  the  earth  disappeared  from 
below  them.  Nothing  could  be  manufactured  because  measurements  and 
timings  were  vitally  distorted.  Even  transport  virtually  ground  to  a halt 
when  red  lights  disappeared  and  wheels  ceased  to  be  as  round  as  for- 
merly. Not  a clock  round  about  the  whole  glohe  could  be  persuaded  to 
tell  correct  time. 

And  it  was  all  because  a delinquent  youth  from  Crete  had  tried  to  rape 
precious  little  Elena  Papoulias.  The  Houdris  Hypothesis  was  largely 
conventional  wisdom  hy  now;  Elena’s  sleeping  god  had  almost  been  wa- 
kened by  the  attempted  rape.  Rousing,  he  had  lost  part  of  the  thread  of 
his  dream,  causing  Australia  to  etc.  etc.  . . . 

How  fortunate  it  was  that  the  chandelier  in  Elena’s  luxurious  lounge 
had  fallen  from  the  ceiling  when  it  did,  stunning  the  combless  youth,  so 
that  he  could  be  arrested  before  real  harm  was  done.  Thus,  the  universe 
was  saved  to  continue  its  precarious  existence. 

Demands  immediately  arose  from  the  UN,  from  NATO,  and  from  the 
FBI  that  Elena  should  be  placed  under  their  care  and  guarded  more 
effectively.  The  President  of  Turkey  even  went  so  far  as  to  suggest  that 
Elena  should  be  kept  perpetually  under  anesthesia  in  order  to  ensure 
the  god’s  restful  sleep.  No  more  of  these  irresponsible  Greek  shocks  to 
Elena’s  system  could  be  permitted. 

The  Greek  government  was  mortified  by  all  such  suggestions.  They 
immediately  had  a lock  put  on  Elena’s  patio  doors,  after  some  delay. 

Fears  were  expressed  that  the  god  might  be  born  on  Christmas  Day. 
He  would  then  awaken  and  that  would  be  the  end  of  everything.  How- 
ever, the  hospital  gynecologists  and  other  experts  brought  in  from  out- 
side denied  this  would  happen.  Elena’s  was  definitely  no  ordinary  preg- 
nancy. 

Despite  these  reassurances,  by  Christmas  Eve  millions  of  people  all 
around  what  remained  of  the  world  were  decidedly  anxious. 

“One  good  thing,”  said  Elizabeth.  “If  Australia  has  disappeared,  Costas 
has  probably  disappeared  with  it.” 

She  had  found  a house  she  liked.  She  was  standing  in  its  bare  rooms 
with  her  sister  Sophia  and  Constandine  (with  whom  she  was  still  hardly 
on  speaking  terms  following  his  sale  of  the  photographs)  and  Elena  and 
her  three  other  daughters.  Everyone  was  well-wrapped.  It  was  cold,  cold 
for  Athens.  Four-thirty  on  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve,  and  their 
platoon  of  guards  had  been  allowed  to  nip  off  to  do  some  shopping. 

Persephone,  Artemis,  and  Rea  were  wearing  smart  new  coats  bought 
by  their  mother  that  very  morning.  They  gathered  protectively  around 
their  youngest  sister,  shielding  her  from  her  wicked  uncle.  Dr.  Houdris 
wore  dark  glasses  for  the  occasion,  and  kept  quiet  at  first. 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


161 


Sophia  was  gushing  about  the  virtues  of  the  house.  “So  nice  and  near 
the  shops!”  Her  husband  agreed  and  tugged  his  moustache  uncomfort- 
ably. “Very  good  taste.”  The  girls  were  nodding,  smiling,  agreeing — all 
except  Elena  who  just  stood  there  in  a golden  daze,  holding  her  stomach. 

Elena  exclaimed,  in  the  middle  of  all  the  congratulations,  “But  we 
can’t  see  the  sea  from  this  house.” 

In  Elizabeth’s  mind,  it  was  as  if  a dark  cloud  obscured  the  sun.  She 
perceived  that  Sophia  and  her  husband  were  merely  buttering  her  up, 
that  the  girls  were  miserable  and  smiling  only  out  of  politeness,  that 
Elena  felt  herself  to  be  in  a prison.  Immediately,  Elizabeth  also  felt 
herself  imprisoned.  One  of  her  old  dark  moods  came  upon  her.  She  felt 
she  was  worth  nothing  and  could  do  nothing  right. 

“The  government  is  paying  for  everything,”  she  said  glumly.  “It  can’t 
pay  for  the  sea.” 

“It  could  pay  for  a house  by  the  sea,”  the  doctor  pointed  out.  Grinning 
at  Elena,  who  immediately  hid  behind  her  sisters,  he  added,  “If  that’s 
what  Elena  wants,  then  that’s  what  she  should  have.” 

“Oh,  life’s  so  difficult!”  Elizabeth  exclaimed.  “Why  is  it  so  difficult? 
Why  don’t  you  all  go  away  and  leave  me?” 

“Lizzie,  dear,”  said  Sophia,  taking  her  arm.  “I  thought  you’d  grown  out 
of  these  fits.  We’ll  leave  if  you  like,  but  remember  that  the  only  important 
thing  is  that  Elena  should  be  content — for  the  sake  of  the  whole  world.” 

“The  world!  What’s  the  world  ever  cared  about  me?  Why  should  I care 
about  it?  Look  how  fat  I’ve  got.  . . .” 

“You  are  a bit  fat.  Mommy  dear,”  agreed  Persephone. 

“Perhaps  you’re  pregnant  again.  Mommy  dear,”  suggested  Artemis. 

“At  least  you’re  not  as  fat  as  Auntie,  Mommy  dear,”  Rea  told  her. 

They  all  began  to  shuffle  uncertainly  toward  the  door,  leaving  Eliza- 
beth standing,  a pillar  of  gloom,  in  the  middle  of  the  empty  space. 
Houdris  decided  to  give  his  sister-in-law  a short  lecture,  if  only  to  restore 
his  own  standing  in  his  wife’s  eyes. 

“You  must  raise  your  sights  a bit,  Lizzie.  Think  of  your  position.  You 
have  power  and  influence  now  and  should  use  them.” 

“So  Aphaia  told  me,”  Elizabeth  muttered  to  herself. 

“Well  then,  take  my  advice,  don’t  buy  this  hen-coop.  Buy  yourself  a 
palace.  Soak  the  government,  the  way  it  always  soaked  us.  Order  a yacht. 
Live  decently  while  you’ve  got  the  chance.”  He  knew  Elizabeth  would 
understand  the  real  meaning  of  what  he  said:  Stop  being  such  a peasant. 

She  flew  into  a rage  and  drove  them  all  out  of  the  house,  calling  Elena 
back  only  at  the  last  moment. 

“A  fine  way  to  behave  to  her  nearest  and  dearest,”  exclaimed  Sophia 
as  she  shuffled  down  the  garden  path,  nose  in  air.  “Particularly  at  Christ- 
mas. Her  and  her  rude  daughters!” 

Mother  and  daughter  stood  confronting  each  other  with  only  the  faded 
wallpaper  of  the  unsold  room  for  company.  Elena  dropped  her  gaze,  re- 
morseful that  she  had  upset  her  mother.  She  held  her  stomach  protec- 
tively. 


162 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


“I’m  stuck  with  you,  Elena,  aren’t  I?  And  you’re  stuck  with  me.  I 
suppose  that  the  god  is  going  to  be  sleeping  inside  you  all  your  life,  long 
after  I’m  dead.  Why  do  the  gods  trespass  in  our  affairs,  damn  them?” 

“They  started  up  the  world,  after  all,  Mom.  Just  imagine  a world 
started  up  by  humans!  That  would  be  in  an  even  worse  pickle,  I’m  sure.” 

Elizabeth  felt  in  her  shoulder  bag  and  brought  out  a sharp  kitchen 
knife.  “I’ve  carried  this  about  with  me  for  some  days,”  she  said.  “It’s  for 
a certain  purpose.”  The  smile  she  gave  was  not  a real  smile.  She  told 
Elena  for  the  first  time  that  her  father  was  a criminal,  insisting  on  what 
a wicked  man  he  was.  She  knew  Costas  had  escaped  from  prison;  Father 
Nikolaos  had  told  her  so,  and  Costas  had  confirmed  it  over  the  phone. 
When  she  heard  that  Australia  was  destroyed,  she  rejoiced — re- 
joiced!— ^because  she  hoped  he  had  also  been  destroyed. 

“Oh,  no.  Mother.  Daddy  had  already  left  Australia.  He’s  in  Athens.  I 
saw  him  once.  I’m  sure  of  it.  He’s  following  us  around.  He  wants  to  join 
us  for  Christmas.  I want  him  to  join  us  for  Christmas.” 

“Never!  I’ll  kill  him  if  I set  eyes  on  him  again.  He’s  only  after  you  for 
the  money.”  She  brandished  the  knife. 

Elena  shook  a finger  at  her  mother.  “You  must  do  what  I say,  mustn’t 
you?  I need  my  father,  whatever  he’s  done  wrong.  You  and  he  will  have 
to  get  together  again.  If  you  upset  me,  the  universe  will  end.  Don’t  forget 
that.” 

“Let  it  end!  Let  it!  I need  a change!”  She  remembered  that  the  ghost 
of  Aphaia  had  claimed  that  she  could  create  a new  world  if  she  tried. 
The  thought  entered  Elizabeth’s  mind  that  it  would  be  an  advantage  if 
the  universe  did  end.  She  saw  it  as  full  of  her  misery,  packed  with 
everyday  difficulties.  She  could  get  her  own  back  on  ^phia,  on  Con- 
standine,  on  her  husband,  and  most  of  all  on  Elena,  whose  fault  it  was 
that  their  old  peaceful  life  had  been  stolen  away.  Everyone  else  might 
be  keen  for  the  universe  to  continue,  from  the  professors  and  the  P.M.  to 
the  taxi  driver;  she  wished  it  to  stop.  All  she  had  to  do  was  plunge  the 
knife  into  Elena’s  belly.  Then  the  whole  human  drama  would  be  over. 

She  remained  stock  still,  wild-eyed,  knife  in  hand.  Terrified,  Elena  felt 
something  move  within  her.  The  universe  started  its  contractions. 

When  Sophia  marched  out  of  the  house,  she  had  left  the  front  door 
open.  Without  listening,  Elizabeth  had  heard  the  car  drive  away. 

Now  there  was  a new  figure  at  the  door.  Elizabeth  did  not  immediately 
recognize  him.  He  was  tanned,  and  had  grown  a beard,  grizzled  with 
thick  strands  of  white  among  the  black.  He  looked  bigger  and  sturdier 
than  she  remembered.  He  was  smiling  in  an  amiable,  rather  puzzled 
way,  as  he  hesitated  on  the  threshold,  removing  what  she  knew  to  be  an 
Australian  bush  hat. 

“What  are  you  doing  here  exactly,  Lizzie?”  he  asked. 

She  remembered  the  voice,  still  slightly  teasing  as  of  old.  Dropping 
her  knife,  she  went  across  the  floor  to  him.  To  her  astonishment,  she 
found  she  was  overjoyed  to  be  enfolded  in  his  arms. 

It  was  just  then  that  Elena  went  into  labor. 


THE  GOD  WHO  SLEPT  WITH  WOMEN 


163 


A flash  of  gold,  and  a terrible  golden  darkness.  . . . All  that  remained 
was  the  embracing  pair,  standing  on  a bare  floor,  bathed  in  eternal 
sunlight. 

The  couple  were  starting  everything  anew.  Obscurity  hedged  in  their 
little  realm  of  light.  But  so  it  had  always  been.  # 


ENDLESSNESS 

by  Tom  DIsch 

Never  stops. 

Goes  on  and  on. 

Continues 
to  the  end  of  time 
and  then  beyond. 

Has  neither 
dusk  nor  dawn. 

Goes  on  and  on. 

Never  stops. 

Continues 
amazing  us 
by  its  extent. 

Has  neither 
start  nor  stop. 

Goes  on  and  on. 

Continues 
beyond  the  world's 
last  yawn. 


164 


BRIAN  W.  ALDISS 


Never  stops. 

Is  neither 
here  nor  there. 
Goes  everywhere 
and  continues 
past  the  last 
exit  and  on. 

Never  stops. 
Continues 
unremittingly 
adding  one  to 
another  and 
then  one  more, 
then  another, 
like  a mother 
who  has  a baby 
and  the  baby 
has  a baby 
and  so  on  and  so 
on  continuously 
to  the  end  of  time 
and  then  beyond. 
Never  stopping. 
Continues 
without  a pause 
for  breath  or  death, 
or,  even  if  pausing, 
resuming  after 
a suitable  interval, 
chattering  away 
night  and  day. 
Never  stops. 

Goes  on  and  on 
even  after  we’ve 
wound  down 
or  gone  away. 
Continues. 

Never  stops. 


ON  BQOKSw^iii^r 

MAKING 

INTRODUCTIONS 


It  is  a pleasure  to  introduce  our 
trio  of  new  book  reviewers — Moshe 
Feder,  Peter  Heck,  and  Paul  Di  Fil- 
ippo— to  the  readers  of  Asimov’s 
Science  Fiction  magazine.  These 
three  authors  were  chosen  after  an 
extensive  search  through  the  re- 
sumes and  critical  work  of  dozens 
of  SF  reviewers.  Our  new  critics 
will  share  the  “On  Books”  slot  with 
our  regular  essayist,  Norman 
Spinrad. 

Each  reviewer  will  bring  his  own 
personal  style  and  tastes  to  Asi- 
mov’s. We  expect  to  find  that  the 
column  will  be  filled  with  a lively 
and  diverse  range  of  opinions, 
books,  and  ideas.  Each  of  these  au- 
thors is  a seasoned  critic,  and  they 
all  share  a life-long  love  of  science 
fiction.  We  look  forward  to  the  con- 
tribution they  will  make  to  the 
magazine. 

Our  May  issue  features  a review 
column  by  Moshe  Feder.  Moshe  be- 
gan to  read  science  fiction  at  age 
eight,  and  he  has  been  enjoying 
and  criticizing  it  for  over  a third 
of  a century.  While  in  college,  he 
worked  as  an  assistant  editor  at 
Amazing  and  Fantastic  magazines. 
After  graduation,  he  became  Pub- 
lishers Weekly’s  main  SF  and  fan- 


tasy reviewer  for  almost  six  years. 

He  left  his  position  at  Publishers 
Weekly  to  join  the  Science  Fiction 
Book  Club,  where  he  became  assis- 
tant editor.  A few  years  later  he 
demonstrated  his  versatility  by  ac- 
cepting a promotion  to  editor  of  the 
Military  Book  Club.  (To  avoid  the 
appearance  of  conflicting  interests, 
Moshe  has  agreed  to  refrain  from 
reviewing  military  SF.) 

Moshe  regularly  frequents  sci- 
ence fiction  conventions.  He  once 
chaired  a small  convention,  and  he 
was  fan  guest  of  honor  at  an  even 
smaller  one.  His  current  claim  to 
fannish  fame  is  the  party  he  hosts 
with  his  girlfriend,  Lise  Eisenberg, 
on  the  Friday  night  of  every  con- 
vention they  attend. 

Science  fiction  has  given  him  the 
chance  to  shake  hands  with  such 
childhood  idols  as  Campbell, 
Heinlein,  Bradbury,  and  Clarke, 
and  later  idols  like  Le  Guin,  De- 
lany,  Silverberg,  Wolfe,  Disch,  and 
Ellison.  He  tells  us,  “It’s  great  to 
be  appearing  in  the  magazine 
named  for  Isaac.” 

Moshe’s  piece  will  be  followed  by 
Peter  Heck’s  column  in  our  June 
issue.  A voracious  reader  all  his 
life,  Peter’s  early  favorites  were 


166 


Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Mark  Twain,  Ed- 
gar Rice  Burroughs,  and  Carl 
Barks’s  “Uncle  $crooge”  comics. 
His  first  appearance  in  print  was  a 
fan  letter  to  Mad  magazine. 

Peter  has  been  a freelance  writer 
for  most  of  the  past  decade.  For 
over  twelve  years  he  was  the  sci- 
ence fiction  reviewer  at  both  Long 
Island  and  New  York  Newsdays, 
and  he  has  also  published  reviews 
in  the  Washington  Post,  Kirkus, 
The  New  York  Review  of  Science 
Fiction,  and  Sci-Fi  Channel  Maga- 
zine. Last  year  he  sold  three  mys- 
tery novels  about  “Mark  Twain, 
Detective”  to  Berkley.  The  first 
book  in  the  series.  Death  on  the 
Mississippi,  will  be  out  in  the  fall. 

A former  science  fiction  and  fan- 
tasy editor  at  Ace  Books,  Peter 
may  be  best  known  to  SF  readers 
as  the  editor  of  Xignals  and  Hailing 
Frequencies — Waldenbooks’  news- 
letters for  science  fiction  readers. 
Mr.  Heck  lives  in  Brooklyn  with 
his  wife  Jane  Jewell,  two  cats,  sev- 
eral musical  instruments,  and  a 
large  collection  of  books. 

Science  fiction  author  Paul  Di 
Filippo’s  first  review  column  will 
be  featured  in  our  July  issue.  Paul 
discovered  SF  at  ten,  and  by  age 
seventeen  he  was  determined  to 
become  a writer.  Although  he  sold 
some  nonfiction  early  on  (including 
an  op-ed  piece  to  the  New  York 


Times)  Paul  produced  over  500,000 
words  of  fiction  before  he  made  his 
first  short  story  sale,  “Rescuing 
Andy,”  to  Twilight  Zone  in  1985. 

While  those  first  attempts  still 
take  up  storage  space  in  his  base- 
ment, he  has  since  sold  over  forty 
short  stories.  His  fiction  has  ap- 
peared in  F&SF,  Amazing,  Night 
Cry,  Interzone,  New  Worlds,  Jour- 
nal Wired,  and  other  magazines 
and  anthologies.  His  nonfiction 
publications  include  regular  pieces 
in  Science  Fiction  Eye,  Thrust! 
Quantum,  New  Pathways,  the 
Washington  Post,  SF  Age,  and  the 
SFWA  Bulletin.  His  stories  “Kid 
Charlemagne”  and  “Lennon  Spex” 
were  both  Nebula-award  finalists. 

Paul  has  two  books.  The  Steam- 
punk  Trilogy  and  Fractal  Paisleys, 
forthcoming  from  Four  Walls 
Eight  Windows.  He  lives  in  Provi- 
dence, RI,  with  his  life’s  mate  Deb- 
orah Newton. 

With  their  varied  backgrounds 
and  interests,  our  new  columnists 
will  undoubtedly  review  an  eclec- 
tic mix  of  novels,  anthologies,  and 
collections.  Their  individual  efforts 
should  add  up  to  an  entertaining 
and  comprehensive  column  that 
will  never  be  entirely  predictable. 
Please  join  with  us  in  extending  a 
warm  welcome  to  Peter,  Paul,  and 
Moshe — Asimov’s  new  family 
members.  9 


ON  BOOKS:  MAKING  INTROOUCTIONS 


167 


ON  BOCKS 


by  Moshe 
Feder 


Small  Gods:  A Discworld  Novel 

By  Terry  Pratchett 
HarperCollins,  $20.00  (hardcover) 

More  than  most  literary  quali- 
ties, humor  is  a matter  of  taste.  To 
my  taste,  Terry  Pratchett  is  the 
funniest  fantasy  writer  we  have  at 
the  moment.  No  one  else  comes 
close  to  making  me  laugh  out  loud 
as  often  as  he  does. 

He  does  it  to  me  again  in  his  lat- 
est return  to  the  Discworld.  This 
time,  an  examination  of  the  lives 
and  deaths  of  gods,  of  truth  versus 
orthodoxy,  of  faith  and  absurdity, 
is  the  occasion  for  a rollicking  sat- 
ire of  organized  religion  that  may 
be  the  best  of  its  kind  since  Hein- 
lein.  He  picks  some  easy  targets, 
perhaps,  but  who  cares  when  the 
rotten  tomatoes  he  pitches  at  them 
splat  so  satisfyingly  as  they  hit 
dead  center! 

Pratchett’s  basic  technique  here 
is  simple  reversal;  he  turns  things 
on  their  heads  to  help  us  see  them 
afresh.  The  dominant  religion  in 
the  country  of  Omnia  is  the  Church 
of  the  Great  God  Om.  In  its  tem- 
ples, Om  is  pictured  as  a rampag- 
ing bull,  crushing  enemies  of  the 
faith  beneath  his  hooves.  Church 
doctrine  states  that  the  world  is  a 
sphere,  floating  in  space.  It  is  now 
threatened  by  a heresy  of  foreign 
origin  holding  that  the  world  is  a 
disc  supported  on  the  backs  of  four 


huge  elephants  which  ride  in  turn 
on  the  back  of  a giant  turtle  swim- 
ming through  space.  (Readers  of 
previous  Discworld  books  know 
that  this  is  in  fact  the  case.)  The 
heretics’  motto:  “The  Turtle 
Moves!” 

The  Great  God  Om  hasn’t  no- 
ticed this  threat  to  his  Church;  he 
has  a more  serious  problem.  As  the 
Church  has  grown  in  power,  his 
own  power  has  declined,  since  it 
depends  on  the  true  belief  of  his 
worshippers,  most  of  whom  are 
having  trouble  seeing  past  the 
Church  to  their  god.  As  a result,  he 
finds  himself  trapped  in  the  form 
of  a humble  tortoise.  In  fact,  when 
he  drops  in  on  the  Church’s 
H.Q. — thanks  to  an  eagle  who’d 
hoped  to  crack  him  open  for  din- 
ner— he  finds  only  one  soul  whose 
faith  is  pure  enough  for  him  to 
hear  Om’s  call.  Unfortunately,  it  is 
the  lowest  of  the  low  at  the  Citadel, 
a mere  novice  named  Brutha,  our 
hero. 

Brutha  is  an  innocent  whose  life 
is  about  to  get  a lot  more  compli- 
cated, for  not  only  has  he  been 
called  to  the  aid  of  his  god,  he’s 
been  noticed  by  Vorbis,  fearsome 
head  of  the  Quisition,  who  feels  he 
has  uses  for  an  implicitly  loyal,  il- 
literate young  man  who  has  an  ei- 
detic memory.  Vorbis  brings  Bru- 
tha along  on  an  expedition  to 


168 


Omnia’s  next  target  for  conquest, 
Ephebe,  a country  of  philosophers 
with  much  the  same  resemblance 
to  classical  Greece  as  the  setting  of 
The  Boys  from  Syracuse.  The  re- 
sult is  a clash  of  cultures  and  a 
change  of  Omnia’s  fortunes  that 
brings  both  Vorbis  and  Brutha  to 
fates  they  could  never  have  imag- 
ined. Oh  yes,  the  Great  God  Om 
has  a change  of  luck  too. 

Think  of  this  as  a novel  for  fan- 
tasy fans  who  really  liked  Monty 
Python’s  Life  of  Brian.  If  you’re  one 
of  us,  you’ll  have  a good  time. 

Impossible  Things 

By  Connie  Willis 

Bantam  Spectra,  $5.99  (paper) 

It’s  important  to  avoid  the  ap- 
pearance (or  actuality!)  of  a conflict 
of  interest,  but  Connie  Willis  is  too 
important  a writer  for  me  to  ignore 
her  second  collection  of  short  sto- 
ries just  because  Gardner  Dozois 
has  provided  its  introduction  and 
nine  of  the  eleven  stories  in  it  first 
appeared  in  the  pages  of  this  maga- 
zine. I assure  you,  those  facts  don’t 
automatically  predispose  me  to- 
ward it. 

In  fact,  all  too  often  I find  myself 
admiring  Willis’s  writing  rather 
than  liking  it.  She’s  a fine  writer 
who  can  hold  her  own  in  any  liter- 
ary company,  but  sometimes  she 
seems  uncertain  that  she’s  a sci- 
ence fiction  writer.  At  least,  so  I 
infer  from  some  of  her  stories. 
That’s  a shame,  since  I’d  really  like 
to  be  able  to  point  to  her  as  an  ex- 
emplar of  the  field’s  best.  I know 
I’m  in  the  minority  with  this  per- 
ception— just  look  at  all  the  SF 
awards  she’s  won— but  it’s  consis- 
tently the  way  I’ve  reacted  to  her 
work  for  some  time. 


Rereading  the  stories  for  this  re- 
view, I had  to  revise  some  of  my 
opinions,  if  not  my  level  of  enjoy- 
ment. Some  of  the  stories  I’d  pre- 
viously branded  as  mainstream 
stories  in  SF  greasepaint  do  just 
squeak  by  as  highly  refined  exam- 
ples of  the  subgenre  known  as  “so- 
ciological SF.”  In  their  rigor  and 
characterizational  solidity,  or  their 
precisely  structured  satire,  they 
put  to  shame  the  ’50s  stories  for 
which  the  sociological  label  was 
coined.  Yet  like  bleached  white 
flour,  they  are  somehow  so  refined, 
they’ve  lost  something  essential; 
perhaps  whatever  literary  phero- 
mones would  make  them  smell 
more  like  SF  to  me. 

I may  admire  a story  like  “Ado” 
(about  the  threat  of  political  cor- 
rectness, even  to  the  Bard),  or 
“Even  the  Queen”  (on  the  libera- 
tion of  women  from  the  menstrual 
cycle),  the  latter  a recent  award 
winner.  As  SF,  however,  the  vis- 
ceral reaction  they  evoke  from  me 
approximates  a shrug.  In  many  of 
her  stories,  not  just  these  two,  it 
has  something  to  with  the  internal 
balance  between  the  effort  ex- 
pended on  the  SF  premise  and  that 
devoted  to  the  characters’  reaction 
to  it.  Willis  is  so  good  at  character- 
ization that  the  mild  SF  elements 
seem  like  no  more  than  an  excuse 
for  it,  and  so  the  stories  feel  more 
like  mainstream  than  SF. 

“The  Last  of  the  Winnebagos”  is 
an  exception  in  this  class  of  Willis’s 
work.  Originally  I considered  it  too 
sentimental,  but  it  more  than 
holds  up  on  rereading,  both  as  a 
powerful  story  and  as  SF.  If  you’re 
going  to  write  real  sociological  SF, 
it’s  got  to  be  this  strong  to  work. 

There  are  five  stories  here  with 


ON  BOOKS 


169 


some  claim  on  non-sociological 
genre  identity.  In  approximate  or- 
der of  quality;  “Jack”  adds  a touch 
of  the  supernatural  to  an  account 
of  life  during  the  Blitz  in  London. 
The  recreation  of  the  Blitz  is  much 
more  impressive  than  the  use  of 
the  single  fantastic  element  Jack 
supplies.  “Spice  Pogrom,”  undeni- 
ably SF,  is  a charming  and  precise 
homage  to  Hollywood  screwball 
comedy  (especially  The  More  the 
Merrier).  I only  wish  it  were  as 
funny  as  its  models.  Maybe  it 
would  be,  as  a movie.  “Time  Out” 
has  some  of  the  same  screwball 
flavor,  but  with  an  original  plot 
about  time  manipulation  via  peo- 
ple manipulation,  and  is  funnier 
for  its  freshness.  “Chance,”  one  of 
the  best  here,  is  a deliberately  grey 
and  dismal  inquiry  into  the  power 
of  small  decisions  to  ramify 
through  our  lives.  Its  variation  on 
the  traditional  SF  theme  of  alter- 
nate time  tracks  makes  the  most  of 
Willis’s  strengths.  “Winter’s  Tale” 
may  be  my  favorite  story  in  the 
book.  It’s  a perfectly  executed  al- 
ternate history  about  Shake- 
speare’s identity.  Willis  should  try 
more  like  it — she  has  a knack  for 
historical  re-creation,  as  we’ve 
seen  in  her  novels. 

Finally,  there  are  the  three  sto- 
ries that  irritate  me  most  because 
they  aren’t  science  fiction  or  fan- 
tasy, but  they’ve  each  been  nomi- 
nated for,  or  won,  genre  awards. 
“Schwarzschild  Radius,”  a Nebula 
nominee,  “In  the  Late  Cretaceous,” 
a Hugo  nominee,  and  “At  the  Ri- 
alto,” a Hugo  nominee  and  Nebula 
winner,  are  all  based  on  the  idea  of 
using  science  as  a metaphor.  The 
first,  an  impressively  imagined 
look  into  the  trenches  of  WWI,  uses 


the  physics  of  black  holes.  The  sec- 
ond, a slight  satire  of  academic  life 
and  educational  reform,  uses  pale- 
ontology and  evolution.  The  third, 
which  mocks  scientific  conferences 
and  Hollywood,  uses  quantum  the- 
ory. The  first  is  affecting,  the  sec- 
ond falls  totally  flat,  the  third 
raises  a small  smile.  As  nicely 
structured  as  the  metaphors  are, 
not  one  of  these  stories  is 
SF — though  SF  markets  may  be 
the  only  ones  that  would  consider 
them — and  it’s  beyond  me  why 
knowledgeable  fans  and  writers 
would  nominate  them  for  SF 
awards.  (Of  course,  you  can’t 
blame  Willis  for  that.)  Yet  I feel 
like  a voice  crying  in  the  wil- 
derness. 

If  you’re  a reader  of  this  maga- 
zine, you’re  probably  a Connie  Wil- 
lis fan.  If  so,  buy  this  book;  no  Con- 
nie Willis  fan  should  be  without  it. 
Read  it,  and  we  might  agree  that 
she’s  a great  writer,  but  not,  for  my 
part,  a great  SF  writer. 

The  Innkeeper’s  Song 

By  Peter  S.  Beagle 
Roc,  $20.00  (hardcover) 

Peter  Beagle  is  one  of  the  best 
and  least  prolific  serious  fantasy 
writers.  If,  like  me,  you  were  a bit 
let  down  by  his  last  book  (Folk  of 
the  Air,  1987),  Beagle  is  about  to 
make  it  up  to  you.  It  may  take  a 
while  to  fall  under  the  spell  of  The 
Innkeeper’s  Song,  because  Beagle 
has  opted  to  tell  it  from  multiple 
viewpoints,  but  stick  with  it  until 
you  get  your  bearings  and  you’ll 
stay  for  the  duration.  This  isn’t  one 
of  those  grand-scaled  fantasies 
with  a cast  of  thousands,  and  the 
closest  things  to  a quest  or  epic 
journey  are  mercifully  short.  The 


170 


MOSHE  FEDER 


focus  instead  is  on  charac- 
ters— those  points  of  view  I men- 
tioned— and  while  the  stage  never 
gets  too  crowded,  there  are  a num- 
ber of  them. 

Lai  is  a legendary  warrior  and 
sailor,  a striking  black  woman 
with  lots  of  experience.  Nyateneri, 
her  companion,  has  formidable 
martial  arts  skills  of  her  own.  An 
escapee  from  a secret  order,  she’s 
being  hunted  by  its  implacable  as- 
sassins. (Impressive  as  she  seems, 
there  is  even  more  to  her  than 
meets  the  eye.)  Lukassa,  a pretty 
girl  from  an  insignificant  village, 
was  dead — drowned — until  Lai 
came  along  and  magically  resur- 
rected her  with  a spell  learned 
from  the  wizard  who  changed  the 
course  of  her  own  life.  Lukassa 
joins  Lai  and  Nyateneri  on  their 
journey,  only  to  be  heroically, 
seemingly  hopelessly,  pursued  by 
Tikat,  her  betrothed,  who  is  not 
about  to  give  up  the  love  of  his  life. 
Along  the  way,  Tikat  meets  an- 
other friend  of  Nyateneri’s,  a 
werefox. 

They  will  all  come  together  at 
the  inn  alluded  to  in  the  title, 
where  the  innkeeper,  Karsh,  is 
tough  and  canny  and  reluctantly 
resigned  to  the  visitors’  disruption 
of  his  business,  and  where  his  sta- 
bleboy,  Rosseth,  is  more  than 
ready  for  the  excitement  the  visi- 
tors bring  with  them. 

What  draws  them  together  is  the 
plight  of  the  very  wizard  from 
whom  Lai  learned  that  spell.  Nya- 
teneri reveals  that  he  was  just  as 
important  to  her.  Unfortunately,  a 
more  recent  student,  Arshadin, 
has  a less  cordial  relationship  with 
him — wants  to  kill  him,  in  fact,  in 
order  to  augment  his  own  power. 


The  old  man  needs  help;  his  powers 
have  waned.  Lai  and  Nyateneri 
want  badly  to  provide  some  help, 
but  they  have  little  idea  of  how, 
and  no  idea  of  how  to  find  him. 
They  will  get  assistance  from  un- 
expected sources. 

Although  Beagle  uses  some  fa- 
miliar elements — the  inn,  the  wiz- 
ard, the  woman  warrior  and  so 
on — he  gives  them  his  own  spin,  so 
that  unlike  so  much  of  the  fantasy 
being  published,  the  result  does 
not  feel  derivative  of  a thousand 
other  books.  The  only  criticism  I 
have  is  that  I wanted  to  know  the 
characters  better.  But  with  a well- 
paced plot,  a few  surprises,  and 
perhaps  the  best  sex  scene  I’ve  ever 
read  in  a fantasy  novel,  this  is  a 
book  that  will  please  Peter  Bea- 
gle’s existing  audience  and  add  to 
it. 

Moving  Mars 

By  Greg  Bear 

Tor,  $23.95  (hardcover) 

Greg  Bear  goes  from  strength  to 
strength.  This  new  addition  to  his 
distinguished  body  of  work  is  sure 
to  be  considered  one  of  the  major 
SF  novels  of  1993  and  a sure  award 
nominee.  The  very  model  of  a mod- 
ern major  SF  novel,  it  excels  in  a 
number  of  dimensions. 

First,  it  gives  us  a convincing 
picture  of  life  on  a colonized  Mars 
two  centuries  from  now.  (That’s  a 
popular  setting  these  days,  for 
some  reason.  I wonder  what  the 
Martian  colonists  of  the  future, 
troubled  by  their  relationship  with 
Earth,  will  make  of  all  the  twenti- 
eth century  novels  that  anticipated 
their  plight.)  The  system  he  de- 
scribes of  family  syndicates,  called 
Binding  Multiples  (BMs),  makes  a 


ON  BOOKS 


171 


lot  of  sense  for  a high-tech  pioneer 
society  with  no  single  cultural 
origin. 

Second,  it  gives  us  a fully-real- 
ized protagonist,  Casseia  Ma- 
jumdar.  We  watch  her  grow  from  a 
callow  college  student  to  a mature 
and  powerful  woman.  The  book  is 
aptly  dedicated  to  Ray  Bradbury, 
but  having  met  Casseia,  I couldn’t 
help  thinking  of  Heinlein’s  Mars, 
and  wondering  what  the  range 
from  Podkayne  to  Casseia  says 
about  SF’s  progress. 

Third,  it  gives  us  that  without 
which  no  Greg  Bear  novel  would 
be  complete,  a really  Big  IDEA. 
The  title  hints  at  its  nature,  but 
there’s  a lot  more  to  it  that  I won’t 
give  away  here.  Except  to  suggest 
that  those  of  you  who  like  cutting 
edge  physics  will  not  be  disap- 
pointed. 

The  story  spans  thirteen  years  in 
which  Earth  attempts  to  encour- 
age Mars  to  replace  its  casually 
evolved  system  of  government 
while  discouraging  it  from  devel- 
oping too  strong  a taste  for  inde- 
pendence. Ironically,  from  the  SF 
reader’s  viewpoint,  the  ostensible 
motive  for  this  is  the  need  for  all 
humanity  to  be  united  behind  the 
imminent  “Big  Push,”  the  move 
into  interstellar  space.  The  Mar- 
tians agree  that  that’s  a good  idea, 
but  they  also  know  they  have  a 
world  to  build  right  where  they 
are. 

Casseia’s  first  political  activity 
is  in  a student  protest,  prompted  by 
university  actions  that  ultimately 
derive  from  Earth  policy.  It’s  in  the 
course  of  this  civil  disobedience 
that  she  meets  Charles  Franklin 
and  begins  a friendship  that  grows 
into  her  first  serious  love  affair. 


Charles,  we  note,  is  a physics  stu- 
dent with  big  ideas. 

Later  Casseia  returns  to  school 
and,  ignoring  her  BM’s  banking 
tradition,  majors  in  government. 
This  later  enables  her  to  qualify  as 
assistant  to  a Martian  ambassador 
on  a mission  to  Earth.  The  moth- 
erworld  makes  a deep  impression 
on  her,  but  doesn’t  change  her  alle- 
giance. She  marries  an  archeolo- 
gist (yes,  this  Mars  has  fossils), 
transfers  to  his  BM  and  gets  in- 
volved in  politics.  It  isn’t  long  be- 
fore she’s  helping  to  draft  the  first 
Martian  constitution  and,  later, 
running  for  high  office  in  the  new 
government.  Of  course,  there  are 
dissident  BMs  and  even  whole  dis- 
tricts who  abstain  from  the  new  ar- 
rangements and  may  cause  trou- 
ble. More  ominously,  the  work  that 
Charles  Franklin  and  friends,  call- 
ing themselves  the  Olympians, 
have  been  developing  all  this  time 
is  coming  to  fruition,  and  giving 
Earth  a whole  new  reason  to  want 
to  control  what  happens  on  Mars. 

I for  one  am  glad  that  Greg  Bear 
controls  what  happens  on  Mars!  I 
can’t  wait  to  see  where  he  takes  us 
next. 

Worldwar:  In  the  Balance 

By  Harry  T urtledove 

Del  Rey,  $21 .00  (hardcover) 

There  are  a number  of  classic 
ideas  in  the  alternate  history  sub- 
genre which  have  been  explored 
several  times.  Napoleon  and  the 
Civil  War  have  generated  many 
such  works,  as  has  WWII,  which 
inspired  my  favorite,  Philip  K. 
Dick’s  The  Man  in  the  High  Castle. 
Now  Turtledove,  whose  backlist 
shows  he  loves  the  form,  contri- 
butes a fresh  one,  with  lots  of  juicy 


172 


MOSHE  FEDER 


possibilities:  what  if  an  alien  inva- 
sion had  interrupted  World  War 
Two? 

Casting  his  narrative  net  as 
widely  as  the  lizardoid  aliens  (who 
call  themselves  the  Race)  have 
scattered  their  ships,  he  shows  us 
the  invasion  and  the  struggle  that 
ensues  through  the  eyes  of  a dispa- 
rate group  of  people,  including:  an 
American  scientist;  two  minor 
league  hasehall  players  and  their 
manager;  a Chinese  peasant 
woman;  a German  panzer  officer;  a 
Russian  woman  pilot;  and,  a Jew- 
ish leader  in  the  Warsaw  ghetto 
and  his  cousin,  a radarman  in  En- 
gland. Turtledove  gives  the  alien 
viewpoint,  too,  and  also  mixes  real 
historical  figures  with  the  fictional 
characters,  which  just  adds  to  the 
fun. 

The  Race  are  a conservative  spe- 
cies with  a very  stable  society, 
founded  on  emperor  worship,  that 
has  lasted  many  thousands  of 
years.  They  have  progressed 
slowly  to  the  point  where  they  can 
travel  between  systems,  and  they 
have  previously  conquered  two, 
one  twenty-eight  thousand,  the 
other  ten  thousand  years  ago.  Now 
they  are  ready  for  a new  conquest, 
and  they  are  so  confident  of  a walk- 
over that  their  colony  ships  are  al- 
ready on  the  way.  Too  bad  for  the 
lizards  that  their  scout  probes  mis- 
led them  with  images  of  a prein- 
dustrial world.  They’d  never  imag- 
ined that  the  Big  Uglies,  as  they 
call  us,  could  have  advanced  so 
quickly.  This  failure  of  imagina- 
tion could  well  prove  to  be  their 
downfall.  (Or  their  downfall  may 
be  their  new  addiction  to  a sub- 
stance found  in  many  human 
kitchens!)  Their  technology  may  he 


superior  (not  far  different  from 
what  we  have  now),  hut  they  don’t 
have  humanity’s  experience  with 
warfare  and  our  ability  to  adapt 
relatively  quickly  to  change.  They 
also  soon  find  that  the  combatants 
in  the  preexisting  human  war  will 
put  aside  their  differences  to  fight 
alien  invaders.  Turtledove  makes 
good  use  of  the  awkward  partner- 
ships that  result. 

The  aliens  are  another  element 
he  obviously  enjoyed  working 
with.  The  effect  on  them  of  their 
exposure  to  humans  is  pleasantly 
reminiscent  of  certain  stories  by 
Eric  Frank  Russell  and  Christo- 
pher Anvil.  It’s  good  to  be  re- 
minded that  our  species  just  might 
have  a few  useful  qualities. 

This  is  a less  rigorous  kind  of  al- 
ternate history  than  Turtledove’s 
excellent  Guns  of  the  South  (1992). 
There,  he  chose  to  introduce  a sin- 
gle, focused  change  and  have  all 
the  other  changes  flow  out  of  it.  He 
could  concentrate  on  detailed  ex- 
trapolation both  of  events  and  in 
the  behavior  of  historical  charac- 
ters. Here,  while  those  elements 
remain  quite  plausible,  he’s  chosen 
a broad  change  with  so  many  and 
such  powerful  worldwide  conse- 
quences that  the  evolution  of  the 
new  history  can’t  possibly  be  as  ex- 
acting. That  doesn’t  prevent  it 
from  being  a very  enjoyable  read. 

If  either  alien  invasions  or  alter- 
nate history  are  your  cup  of  tea, 
don’t  miss  this  one.  One  warning, 
however.  The  ending,  while  not  a 
cliffhanger,  is  certainly  unre- 
solved. The  material  I was  sent 
gives  no  hint  of  when,  or  if,  a fol- 
low-up may  appear.  So  hold  off  if 
you  can’t  stand  being  tantalized. 
The  rest  of  you,  go  ahead;  I have 


ON  BOOKS 


173 


been  told  unofficially  that  he  is 
working  on  a sequel.  Let’s  hope  so, 
for  clearly  Turtledove  must  be  ac- 
knowledged today’s  master  of  al- 
ternate history. 

Mefisto  In  Onyx 

By  Harlan  Ellison 

Mark  V.  Ziesing  Books,  $16.95 

(hardcover) 

This  slim  volume  with  its  un- 
usual 6"x7%"  horizontal  format 
contains  Ellison’s  longest  work  of 
fiction  in  thirteen  years.  If  history 
is  any  guide,  it  could  very  well  gar- 
ner that  soon-to-be-sixty-year-old 
enfant  terrible  another  set  of 
awards.  At  20,700  words  the 
book’s  power  is,  of  necessity, 
quite  compressed,  and  too  much 
description  would  puncture  its 
hard  thin  shell  and  drop  the  pres- 
sure considerably.  So  let  me  try  to 
give  it  to  you  Hollywood  style,  dis- 
tilled to  high  concept. 

Rudy  Pairis,  an  African-Ameri- 
can Rhodes  scholar,  has  never 
made  much  of  his  life;  primarily 
because  he  can  read  minds.  Let’s 
say  it’s  something  of  a distraction. 
His  good  friend,  a white  woman 
named  Allison  Roche,  has  asked  to 
see  him.  She’s  an  Alabama  D.A. 
who  has  just  had  the  triumph  of 
her  career  hy  convicting  serial 
killer  Henry  Lake  Spanning.  He’s 
scheduled  to  die  in  the  electric 
chair  in  just  three  days  and  she 
wants  Rudy  to  visit  him.  For  de- 
spite the  fact  that  Spanning’s  al- 
leged m.o.  was  particularly  vicious 
and  disgusting,  Allison  has  fallen 
in  love  with  him  and  believes  him 
to  be  innocent.  She  wants  Rudy  to 
read  Spanning’s  mind  and  confirm 


that  belief. 

You  can  probably  imagine 
Rudy’s  response,  as  an  African- 
American,  to  the  idea  of  visiting  a 
penitentiary  in  Alabama  for  any 
purpose.  You  can  sympathize  with 
the  mixed  emotions  caused  by  his 
own  suppressed  feelings  for  Alli- 
son. You’ll  be  interested  to  learn 
that  even  visiting  a normal  mind 
can  leave  him  feeling  ill,  so  that  the 
inner  landscape  of  a probable  psy- 
chopath holds  little  tourist  app>eal. 
You  are  unlikely  to  guess  where  El- 
lison takes  the  story  next.  So  that  is 
all  I’m  going  to  say  about  it. 

As  a shopper’s  advisory,  I should 
point  out  that  this  story  first  ap- 
peared in  substantially  the  same 
form  in  the  October  1993  Omni.  (It 
was  about  five-hundred  words 
shorter  there).  If  you  can  find  a 
copy  of  the  magazine,  that  would 
be  a bargain.  $16.95  will  strike 
some  people  as  a lot  of  money  for 
such  a slim  book  (112  loosely  set 
pages),  even  with  a jacket  and  in- 
troduction by  Frank  Miller.  How- 
ever, it’s  not  out  of  line  with  the 
price  of  other  small  press  products. 
(In  fact  a thousand  people  paid  six- 
ty-five dollars  and  bought  out  ev- 
ery copy  of  the  signed  limited  edi- 
tion.) That’s  a judgment  you  must 
make  for  yourself  as  a comsumer. 
All  I can  tell  you  is  that  Ellison 
does  deliver.  Oh,  there  is  what  ap- 
pears to  be  some  wheel-spinning 
shaggy-doggism  here  and  there, 
but  I suspect  even  that  is  by  design 
and  intended  to  contribute  to  the 
final  effect.  Something  like  a rab- 
bit punch  to  the  solar  plexus. 

Harlan,  it’s  been  too  long  since 
the  last  novel.  # 


174 


MOSHE  FEDER 


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CONVENTIONAL 

CALENDAR 


by  Erwin  S.  Strauss 


Easter  is  early  this  year,  one  of  the  biggest  con(vention)  weekends  of  the 
year  worldwide.  Plan  now  for  social  weekends  with  your  favorite  SF  authors, 
editors,  artists,  and  fellow  fans.  For  a longer,  later  list,  an  explanation  of 
cons,  a sample  of  SF  folksongs,  and  information  about  clubs  and  fanzines, 
send  me  an  SASE  (addressed,  stamped  #10  [business]  envelope)  at  Box 
3343,  Fairfax  VA  22038.  The  hot  line  is  (703)  2SF-DAYS  (273-3297).  If  a 
machine  answers  (with  a list  of  the  week’s  cons),  leave  a message  and  I'll 
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tell  me  of  your  con  6 months  out.  Look  for  me  at  cons  as  Filthy  Pierre. 


APRIL  1994 

1-3 — BaltiCon.  For  into,  write:  Box  686,  Baltimore  MD  21203.  Or  phone:  (410)  563-2737  (10  a m to  10 
p.M  , not  collect).  Con  will  be  held  in:  Baltimore  MD  Of  city  omitted,  same  as  in  address)  at  the  Inner  Harbor 
Hyatt.  Guests  will  include:  Mercedes  Lackey,  Larry  Dixon,  Frederik  Pohl,  Duane  Elms. 


1-3 — MiniCon.  (612)  338-4728  or  824-5559.  Radisson,  Bloomington  MN.  Williamson,  Doherty,  Hevelin. 


1-3 — CowboyCon.  (405)  372-2508.  Stillwater  OK.  A gaming  meet  with  an  SF/fantasy  slant  & art  show. 


1-4 — UK  National  Con.  (0272)  737-418.  Britannia  Adelphi  Hotel,  Liverpool.  Gaiman,  Hambly,  Duane. 


1-4 — UK  Nat’l.  Media  Con.  Guernsey,  Channel  Is.  No  phone  or  hotel  known;  try  con  above's  number. 


1-4 — Australian  Nal'I.  Con.  (03)  305-2590  or  859-3110.  Southern  Cross  Hotel,  Melbourne.  Gibson. 


1-4 — CampCon,  % Felicity  Scoones,  Box  26-311,  Epsom,  Auckiand  NZ.  Workshop-based  con. 


8-10 — MisCon.  (406)  728-9423  or  721-2455.  Red  Lion  Hotel.  Missoula,  MT.  Zelazny,  Freas,  Emerson. 


8-10 — Winds  of  War.  (919)  966-5677.  Wargaming  meet,  using  Avalon-Hill's  Advanced  Squad  Leader. 


15-17 — EatonCon,  % Slusser,  Box  5000,  UCR,  Riverside  CA  92517.  (909)  787-3233.  Academic  con. 


15-17 — TechniCon,  Box  256,  Blacksburg  VA  24063.  (703)  951-3282.  Gaming  with  an  SF/fantasy  slant. 


15-17 — icon.  Box  550,  Slony  Brook  NY  11790.  (516)  632-0645.  At  SUNY.  5500  there.  Harlan  Ellison. 


15-17 — Nebula  Awards  Weekend.  C.  von  Rospach,  (510)  948-5456.  Fax;  (510)  948-5394.  Eugene  OR. 


15-17 — ConTroll,  Box  740969-1025,  Houston  TX  77274.  (713)  895-9202.  M.  Weis,  Jittlov,  Gutierrez. 


15-17 — FILKONtarlo,  302  College  Av.  W.  #20,  Guelph  ON  NIG  4T6.  Regal,  Etobicoke  ON.  SF  folksing. 


22-24 — Andromeda,  4410  S.  45th  St.,  Lincoln  NE  68516.  Downtown  Ramada,  9th  St.  Katherine  Kurtz. 


22-24 — CasinoCon,  Box  575,  St.  Charles  MO  63302.  (314)  256-8364.  A.  Steele,  Tucker,  M.  Reichert. 


22-24 — DemiCon,  Box  7572,  Des  Moines  lA  50322.  (515)  224-7654.  G.  Cook,  D.  L.  Anderson,  Hevelin. 


22-24 — Fantasy  Worlds  Festival,  Box  72,  Berkeley  CA  94704.  Marriott.  M Z.  Bradley's  own  con. 


22-24 — AmigoCon,  Box  3177,  El  Paso  TX  79923.  (915)  542-0443.  Airport  Quality  Inn.  Roger  Zelazny. 


23-25 — Interact,  Box  2080,  Canberra  ACT  2601,  Australia.  Nat  l.  Conv.  Centre.  Media  SF/fantasy. 


SEPTEMBER  1994 

1.5_ConAdian,  Box  2430,  Winnipeg  MB  R3C  4A7.  (204)  942-9494.  WorldCon.  $95/C$125  in  1993. 


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included).  $49.98  ($5.95)  #A2068. 


TO  ORDER:  Send  check  with  item  number  for  total  amounts,  plus  shipping  & handling  shown  in  ( ) 
payable  to  Mail  Order  Mali,  Dept.(i54  as;  p.O.  Box  3006,  Lakewood,  N.J.  08701,  or  call  TOLL  FREE 
1 ■800-722-9999.  NJ  residents  add  6%  sales  tax.  We  honor  MasterCard/Visa.  Sorry,  no  Canadian, 
foreign,  or  C,O.D,  orders.  Satisfaction  Guaranteed.  30  day  money  back  guarantee  for  exchange  or 
refund.  Allow  30  days  for  delivery. 


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